The Orchestra
Inspired by the @horrorprompts flash fiction prompt for February 24th
Content Warning: this work contains graphic scenes of body horror.
Advisory: To ensure your safety while reading this story, Marrowtheadde’s name has been misspelled.
The conductor entered from stage left to thunderous applause. Exuberance precipitated from her every step towards the mahogany podium, her strides evoking the image of a dancer’s weightless grace. She bathed in the audience’s excitement, absorbed the rabid anticipation that dripped from the gold-filigree pillars and crimson, velvet curtains of the symphony hall.
How long had it taken to get here? How many decades of persistence, of pushing the boundaries of her skills as an artist, of gaining the prestige needed to conduct in a hall as grand as this?
Far too long.
The score’s unassuming weight in the conductor’s arm sent her mind spiraling back to the night it had found its way to her: back to the hazy warmth of that dream. She remembered Marrowtheadde, its name plucked from some graffiti she had seen on the way home that evening, its long hands guiding hers as she conducted an unseen orchestra in a piece beautiful beyond description. How real the music had felt, and how terrifying: the painful ecstasy of its impossible harmonies, the baleful call of horns, the screams of fear and delight blending into haunting melodies, filling the deepest pits of her consciousness.
A feeling of anxiety flared up in her lungs as the conductor relived her memories. She recalled the panic she had felt as she began to slip from the dream before the music reached its conclusion, the existential fear at the idea of losing those sounds forever. You could have the score, if you wished. You could play it again, but for real, Marrowtheadde had whispered at the boundary of sleep and wakefulness, its lips pressed to her ear. Would you like that? She had woken from that dream with a jolt, her cry of “Yes!” still on her lips.
What joy she had felt upon discovering the score clasped in her hands.
Her mind warm with the glow of nostalgia, the conductor reached the podium. She took a moment to trace the fine inked title, as she had done so long ago, before placing it upon the stand with utmost reverence. So much work to get here, and now it’s finally time. The soothing chill of Marrowtheadde’s unseen fingers settled over her shoulders, as they had so many times in her most difficult moments. It’s eagerness for the performance trickled down the back of her neck with its every breath, eliciting shivers along her spine before its presence dissipated to join the audience.
The conductor turned and took her bow, bathing in the ceaseless rippling applause and cheers of affirmation, pride swelling in her chest at the lack of empty seats. Her eyes sailed over the sea of people, the dim light of the hall reflected in eager eyes and mirthful smiles and constellations of opulent jewelry. In a normal concert she would have taken this opportunity to speak to the crowd, to introduce the works for the evening. Instead she gave another bow and a hearty wave before returning to face her orchestra. She didn’t want to wait any longer.
Silence filled the hall, the last of the applause fluttering into nothingness. Before her the musicians sat, statuesque, instruments at the ready. The conductor gave them a knowing nod. In the gleam of the stage lights her eyes picked at the glints that belied the large inscribed nails she had used to keep them sitting upright and bind them to her will. With a final deep breath the conductor opened the score and raised her baton, the creak of the musicians’ stiffened limbs echoing into the silence to form the opening note of her masterpiece.
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So it began.
A murmuration of strings. A drone of reeds: soft, intangible wisps of melody and harmony that defied the ranges of their instruments, sewn together by the dexterous swaying of her baton. A fog of sound rolled past the conductor’s legs, her skin prickling at its tender chill. Sweeping her wrists she fanned the tangible strains of music towards the audience, soft cries of rapture from behind her weaving themselves into the blanket of sound. Chuckles of embarrassment and hisses calling for silence reached the conductor’s ears. A smirk danced across the corners of the conductor’s lips, satisfaction cradling the back of her skull as her eyes darted across the pages, each note of the audience’s calls marked upon the score.
The conductor stabbed her baton upward, a smiting blade piercing the haunted mists of the introduction to call in the second act. With her next downward stroke a piercing scream rang from the balcony, answered by a static braying of horns. The scream became many, punctuated by a fleshy, crunching squelch among the seats of the ground floor. Cries and retching and jumbled words of panic bubbled from the crowd. “Stop the performance,” someone cried, their call inscribed verbatim underneath the musical bars reserved for the baritone soloist.
Accelerando, dictated the score. The conductor obliged, a buzz of strings filling the air, sweeping up the growing fearful chatter of the audience. In the distance a percussive rapid of footfalls rumbled, panicked cries from those trying to make an exit parroting the flutes as they found the doors barred.
The conductor yelled with excitement as the torrent of melody flooded past her, relishing in the steady climb towards the climactic finale. Summoned with a wave of her arms a terrified choir of screams erupted alongside the groan of the string, a frenzied call and response of cacophonous wails and nightmares that rode upon the cello’s haunted strains. The din of heavy drums pulsed through the hall, accompanied by cries of fear and the rumble of many hands trying to rip open the doors without success.
She conducted on, the flail of her baton carved a white grin into the air to match the glint of her own teeth in the half-light of the concert hall. Raising her left hand she summoned one final bellow of brass and horns, a sound that burrowed into her chest and burned with furious pleasure. The audience replied, laughter and shrieks of joy and the soft crunch of cartilage pulling from bone echoing in the hall. With a laugh of her own the conductor closed her eyes, ecstasy bubbling under her skin, electric joy arcing between the hairs on her arms as the music of her dreams embraced her.
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The music ended much as it had begun, the last moribund strains crawling back to the stage to leave the concert hall a soundscape of dripping fluids, fearful sobs, and silent chewing. By far, the best performance I’ve heard yet, whispered Marrowtheadde from the near distance. Bravo!
As if prompted by its command a smattering of applause erupted from behind her, mad howls of satisfaction echoing throughout the hall. The conductor, butterflies of joy and relief in her stomach turning into giggles as they reached her massive grin, turned to face her audience. With all the gravitas she could muster she gave a deep bow, soaking in the cheers of those concert goers not preoccupied with sucking the marrow from the bloody charnel house of a symphony hall. Laughing at the carnage she blew kisses to the half eaten bodies in their seats, their hands compelled to clap as their final act before sitting forever silent.
The conductor left the stage to fading applause, a youthful bounce in her step. No standing ovation, but a thrilling success, nonetheless, she decided, picking her way through the wrecked human remains to reach the sound booth.
She could only hope the recording of the evening’s performance would elicit the same excitement.
