The Bard of Blackwater

I grew up in a quaint town. The kind where everyone knows everything about one another, truly hellacious. As a child, I was reclusive, so you can imagine I hated it whenever anyone butted into my business. I would just shyly walk away until I found a quiet spot to play my guitar. Because of my nature, I had only one close friend, Sammie.

Sammie and I did everything together. They would listen to me play guitar, and I would listen to their ramblings about local ghosts and hauntings. That was until the day bullies compelled them to prove that the Bard of Blackwater was real. Poor Sammie was a small, sickly child and loved to tell these stories, but it would annoy others because they could never prove them.

As middle schoolers, we were both young and foolish. Sammie told me that the legend went as follows. The Bard of Blackwater would only reveal himself under certain conditions. One, you must play from the heart. Two, it must be in the middle of the night. And three, you can only play by candlelight. I suppose the bard liked his atmosphere, I thought. So, we gathered our things. Some snacks, candles, a camera, and my guitar.

We set out on our journey to the forest on the outskirts of the city. The northern trees loomed over us, completely enveloping the wilderness in a thick and crowded darkness. As I stepped onto the lush grass, the leaves crunched beneath my feet. We trekked onward for sometime until we finally reached the creek.

It was a large clearing, where many had visited before. The creek was small and quiet. There were slabs of rock where the water would gently lap over. Once I found some slabs of stone to sit on, Sammie grabbed the camera and got it recording. I played. Candles illuminated my surroundings, and the trees kept the surrounding darkness at bay.

It was a chilly night, so I found it difficult to find purchase along the frets. But after warming up for a bit, it was easier to strike the strings. I could not tell you how long I had played before things began to get strange. The air grew colder around us. My fingers cramped and ached, but still I kept playing. My song echoed throughout the empty forest and over the creek. As my song rose above the lilies and rocks, to the tops of the mountains, something met it. A whistle. A frightening high-pitched whistle that made us think someone had found us.

Chills shot down my spine as I looked at Sammie. The air grew even colder, and a gust of wind blew out all the candles that surrounded me. Darkness engulfed us. My hair stood on end, yet Sammie urged me to keep playing, while they used the night vision on the camera to see. So I did. Eventually, another whistle, but it was closer. And as I kept playing, harder and faster, fear bolstering my fingers and limbs, the whistling turned into a song.

It was magical. Till this day I have never heard a tune so instinctual, so raw, so beautiful. My friend listened as I played and was awestruck. Slowly, the whistling grew closer to us. Until we saw a man, tall and slim, walking through the creek. He floated closer to us. My fingers could not stop playing.

He slowly approached us, dressed in a flowing cloak and an enormous hat with a feather in it. His steps were elegant and carefree. He sauntered over to us, still whistling, until we reached the crescendo of the song. The music entranced me. I could not tell you what caused Sammie to cry. I thought it was the melody.

We eventually finished the song. Though we were in the dark, he urged us not to light a candle. I could hardly see his features, but I could tell he was smiling.

“You have talent, my boy, you certainly do. You play wonderfully.” I saw him give a low bow, his face almost touching the grass. He jerked back up and turned to Sammie. “If only I had an instrument to play along with you.”

“Perhaps your friend here has an instrument?”

Sammie was shaking, wordless. After a long silence, fear gripping their throat, they squeaked out, “I don’t play anything.”

“What a shame to have a body that doesn’t play. Allow me to remedy that.” The unnaturally tall figure loomed over Sammie, their back turned to me.

Sammie dropped their camera and tried to scramble away. But to no avail, the specter’s arms were far too long for Sammie to escape their grasp. It grabbed them. The details were hard to make out, but I could see them violently thrash about. The sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing filled the darkness. Contorted and disgruntled gurgles still echo in my mind. Eventually, after the sound of mangling flesh and the scent of blood, the Bard turned back towards me.

“What a beautiful guitar they have made. Shall we?” I tried to run, but the allure of hearing the sweet music we could make together was too strong. So I played. The Bard and I played until the sun was about to rise.

The image is still faint, but in those early hours, after the ecstasy of playing such beautiful music, I had come to realize what the Bard had done. I vomited and fell to my knees. My fingers were bloody and raw, the flesh underneath the tips exposed. Tears rolled down my face. And as I looked up, the spirit of the Bard was smiling still.

“Another instrument for my ensemble. Thank you, my boy. But, alas, I must bid you adieu. Let us play together again sometime.” He walked off towards the mountains with his new instrument.

I ran home and explained to their parents that Sammie went missing. I knew no one would believe me if I told them what had truly happened. The investigation went on for a few weeks, but no one could find their body. Eventually, they just gave up on questioning me. But still, the truth lingers deep in my mind. And I hear that beautiful music.

Credit: Daniel March

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