I bought my wife an old violin, a really old violin. It was handmade in 1779 by a Richard Duke. At one time it was owned by a member of the Studebaker family in Cleavland, Ohio. It sounds really nice. She was playing it late the other night as I lounged on the couch. I began to doze off and landed somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. I imagined seeing a girl wearing a long dress, the kind worn by girls two-hundred plus years ago, come into the room and walk up to my wife. “That is my violin,” she said. “I want it back.” My wife asked her if she played it when she was a little girl and she stated that she did. “It was my favorite violin,” she said. My wife handed it to her and she began to play. The music was sweet at first, then took on a quick tempo, then harsh, then dark. She played furiously. The room chilled. The girl’s countenance became grey, then her face contorted into an ugly, scabby texture. Here eyes went black. My wife and I were a bit worried at this point. My wife tore the violin from the girl, who then let out a scream.
I thought the girl was going to strike back, but just then a man and woman, dressed in period clothing of two-hundred years prior, appeared. “You were right to take the violin from her,” he said to us both. “Get out!” he turned to the girl and yelled. “She killed our daughter for that violin,” said the woman. “Thank you for restoring it, we are glad it is in good hands,” she added.
And with that, the two left. The room began to warm up, and my wife began to play. I dozed off again into some sweet dreamland.