Ghost of the Mountain

If you ever hear the sound of banjos in the woods... that's a lonely old ghost who just wants someone to share his music with.

PART ONE: LONELY

His sigh was the only sound in the lonely old cabin. Specks of dust floated through the air in the shafts of cool sunlight slanting through the cracked old windows. The old man's rough, calloused fingers ran along the neck of a banjo, which was propped comfortably in his lap. The wooden chair creaked beneath him as he readjusted his position.
     A single chord rang out from beneath the man's fingers, a sad, echoing modal melancholy. The sound bounced off the small bed, old stove, and handmade cedar table which made up the rest of the room's decorations. It reverberated through the rafters, sending a pair of mice squeaking back to their holes in the wall. A small, sad smile cracked across his weatherbeaten face, and he ran his fingers along the banjo's smooth neck again, his movements full of memory and longing.
      The room around him shifted, and the man found himself on a wide stage, surrounded by a lively band and the laughs of happy dancers. Musical notes flew from his fingers and out to the crowd, who cheered, hollered and spun each other around. The man's heart filled with joy and music.
      Then it was gone, and he was back in the dusty old cabin in the Appalachian Mountains, alone. His heart seemed to drop to the floor and loneliness filled the place where that joy had been only moments ago, in that precious memory.
      A string of low, sorrowful chords pulsed through the air, created by a practiced hand. The old man sighed again, a heavy, tired sigh. He gently set the banjo on the floor, leaning it against his chair. He stood stiffly and shuffled over to his bed, where a dirty old quilt lay spread across a course mattress. The man sat down on the mattress and leaned back, his hands rubbing the quilt between his fingers. His wife had made the quilt, ten years before. He remembered her smiling face, full of laughter and warmth, reminding him of a sunflower. That's what he'd called her - his sunflower.
      The man remembered a song he had played for her on his banjo. The lilting tune echoed in his mind, bringing back hazy memories.
     Then the man rubbed his face. He was tired. He needed a break. A break from this endless loneliness, this trap of memories that could never be relived. His only peace has come from his music, but it seemed hopeless now that he had no one to share it with.
     But his life had been worthwhile. In his youth, he had taught music lessons to farmers and played endless songs at dances and weddings. He had watched hundreds of people move to the rhythm he created with his very own hands on his banjo. He had lived a good life... until his wife had died, and he had lost his house and job. But that hardly mattered now. The only thing that mattered was that he had shared his music with the world. And now his time was up.
      The man slowly closed his milky blue eyes, wrinkled hands folding closed. He felt a sort of peace wash over him, as he lay back against the quilt. That was the last thing he knew.

PART TWO: GHOST

 The old man's eyes fluttered open and looked up at the rickety ceiling of the cabin. He felt an odd sensation - a lightness, blitheness he'd never felt before. He no longer felt stiff and cracked, but he also felt.... empty.

     He propped himself up on the bed, noticing with surprise that he couldn't feel the quilt beneath his fingers.

     The man got off the bed and looked around, his eyes landing back on the cot behind him. He gasped, a raspy intake of breath that seemed to leave his lungs instantly in a tickling whoosh. On the bed lay his own body, wrinkled and pale and ancient. The man stared for a moment, terrified, at the body which no longer belonged to him. He held his hands up, and his eyes widened when he realized they were transparent - he could see straight to the floor through a white haze that was now his hands.

     His gaze moved to his feet, which were also see-through and had a smoke-like swirl around the edges. His legs, too. He was still wearing his stained, torn white shirt and overalls, but they seemed to fade into non-existence at the edges, as if he was blending into the air itself.

He was a ghost.

     Suddenly, it didn't feel scary anymore. He no longer felt sad or angry, or brittle or hurt. Just... empty. And it wasn't just that he literally didn't have any bones or guts inside him - he was still lonely, even in death.

     The man's fingers yearned to play music. He turned and glided over to the chair, where he had leaned his banjo before he died. The banjo shimmered and swirled, just like his hands. He reached out and picked it up - and somehow, he felt the smooth wood of the body, the rough calfskin spread across the drum. His hands didn't go straight through the banjo, like they had done with the quilt. They became one with the instrument, which he had crafted himself several years before.

     The man smiled and began to play the happy tune he'd written for his wife, but was confused when no music unfolded from the strings. He frowned and made a low chord, dragging his finger down the strings, and a melancholy sound pierced the silence. The man tried his happy song again, and once more, despite his translucent fingers moving deftly along the silver frets and strings, no sound came. Then, when he played a sad, low chord, he felt the soundwaves reverberate through his ghostly form.

     The old man realized something, and his heart broke. He was cursed to only be able play sorrowful, despondent music in his death. Never again would his fingers race along the strings to the sunny tune of the song he'd written for his wife.

     His wrinkled, pale face fell and he despaired all over again. All he had wanted was to be able to share his music with people again, like he had in his youth. Or at the very least, play familiar, cheerier songs to himself as he sat in his dusty old cabin.

     The man hugged the banjo to himself and stood straighter. Anger rushed inside him, suddenly - anger at the people who had ignored his music; anger at the people who had taken his house in the city; anger at the people who hadn't helped him when he was sick; anger at himself for not trying harder to make friends. The man made a decision, then and there. While in his ghost form, in which he could not feel pain and tiredness, he would travel the mountains, unlike when he was old and weak. Though he was still wrinkled and sunken-faced on the outside, he felt young again inside.

     He turned, swept one last look around his tumble-down cabin, and strode outside, into the cool Autumn hills of the Appalachian Mountains.

And so, the Haunting of the Old Man with the Banjo began. 

Reviews

[Relic]

I liked this one. There's sadness but it puts into perspective the kind of life he lived....one for for music. I liked the details to, the description of where he lived, how he lived. It paints a picture.

Great story.

[Barnette]

Thank you so much for your review! I was so surprised because I literally published it few minutes ago 😅. Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'm thinking of doing a Part Three about his hauntings

[Relic]

I'm sure it will be good. :)

[Barnette]

Thank you!