A melancholy organ melody had echoed through Broadway Avenue every Sunday night for more than one hundred years.
When the music had originally begun in 1823, the townsfolk were overcome with interest in the mysterious talent who played; how anyone could hit the keys with such tragic passion was truly remarkable. Seasoned musicians were the first to notice the darkness of the chords, the minor keys and chords that made up wordless tunes of death, sorrow, and misery. It was impossible to tell if the organ player was pouring his own torment into the keys, or if his goal was to bring the city into a state of endless sorrow.
But it was too breathtaking, too beautiful to stop. It was a pleasurable suffering, even to those who hated pleasure.
The skill of the player was so incredible, in fact, that some of the townsfolk were determined to find the player. They wanted to ask for his mentorship, or to offer him his own stage. Some thought he was a person in relentless and chronic pain, and wished to evangelize to him or offer him a warm meal at their table.
But anyone who searched for the player, vanished.
It took about twenty years for anyone to realize the connection between the tragic organ player and the disappearing townsfolk. Not many spoke of their desire to find the player, as it was such an odd thing to announce. But there were those over the years that did so: those in the last part of their youth, right before they were expected to take on a job and support a family; or businessmen who wished to fill their pockets with cash and art; or the bittered elderly who simply wanted the music to stop. They would announce their interest or disgust in the tragic organ player, and by the next Monday, they were gone.
“He’s a murderer!” was the story told to children to keep them away. “He’ll make keys from your bones and its strings from your tendons!”
Every adult repeated this story, terrified of losing their child to the tragic organ player. The irony and deeper mystery, however, was that the children didn’t hear the music at all.
“Enough of your lies,” their parents would say. “Of course you hear the music. Everyone does.”
But the children were telling the truth. The melody never hit the ears of the children in town. It was only until they became adults that they suddenly heard it. And there was not a single theory about why this was, so it was decided that the only logical explanation was black magic. So the tragic organ player went from murderer to witch, which to the townsfolk were one in the same.
But now Timothy had begun to hear the music.
He had been directly between twenty-five and twenty-six, so he knew that the reason he heard the music now had no relation to age. He was incredibly logical, intelligent, and critical in his thinking, to the point that hearing the music suddenly didn’t jar him at all. In fact, the first time he heard it, he simply looked up from his evening reading, nodded his head off to the side in thought, blinked twice, and went back to reading.
But the problem was that the music was now distracting him. When he sat down to read his pile of Immanuel Kant, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Søren Kierkegaard, he ended up reading the same words, over and over, his mind spinning and spinning until every nerve in his body was burning.
He stood from his chair, slamming his book against the floor.
“Damn that organ player!”
Three quick breaths escaped him. He noticed it, inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart, then straightened his vest.
“I will simply go find this gentlemen and ask him to stop,” he told himself, since the house was completely empty. “He’ll be sure to understand that I must focus on my studies.”
And so Timothy took his hat and coat, stepping out into the crisp October air, following the music for what felt like hours. He held his coat tighter and tighter against him – even though the weather was not supposed to be so chilly at all this time of year – his toes in his shoes turning to ice. But it was not logical to get hypothermia in autumn, and so he continued on his way.
He continued on his way until he reached an abandoned church, charred and hollow from, perhaps, an old fire. But the doors were still intact, the walls only partially damaged all the way through.
He knocked twice. It was the polite thing to do. But after a few moments, there was no answer, only music, and so he was forced to make his way in.
The church was larger on the inside than the outside, an odd mix of religious beauty and man-made damage. There were sleek wooden pews covered in ash. The walls were white, holding up a black and gray ceiling. The stained glass windows of Jesus on the cross and the two thieves beside him were cracked, their colors faded.
And at the front was a large pipe organ, its brass pipes reaching the ceiling, the notes slipping and falling into the aching, angry pieces of Timothy’s soul even though in this room they sounded barely above a whisper.
“Hello and welcome,” a voice said. “You must have come to see me play.”
Timothy’s eyes blurred and readjusted, taking note of the man sitting on the organ bench. There was nothing special about the man – in fact, there was nothing describable about him at all. He was neither tall nor short, straight nor crooked, young nor old. He didn’t appear to be local or foreign, either. He was simply a ghost with flesh.
The man played a soft chord. Timothy straightened.
“Yes,” Timothy replied. “I’ve come to see you about this insistent playing. It’s quite difficult, you know, to go about daily life with your constant hammering.”
The piano player gave a faint smile and played another chord.
“Do you dislike my playing?”
“I wouldn’t call it dislike. You’re quite talented. Regardless, it’s unbearable.”
“But music like mine must be played, you know. It’s unavoidable.”
Timothy scratched his chin. “A rather odd sentiment.”
“Only a truth most people care not to think about.”
“Must you play your songs so loudly?”
“I’m not playing loudly at all. If I was, we wouldn’t be speaking so calmly as we are now.”
Timothy stopped at the realization. Yes, the music was quite quiet in this church. He could barely hear the tune at all. But when he was outside or in his home, the music filled up the entire city.
“Rather peculiar,” he commented. “Your melodies are overbearing outside of this room.”
The organ player shrugged. “But people are addicted to them, nonetheless.”
Timothy sat on the pew behind the organ player, in the front row.
“There’s rumors about you, you know,” he said.
The organ player chuckled. “Oh? What sort?”
“That you’re a murderer. Or a witch who practices black magic.”
The organ player laughed. “I don’t kill anyone. What a ridiculous notion.”
“And the black magic?”
“A little less ridiculous, perhaps.”
“So you’re a witch?”
“I would say a shapeshifter of sorts.”
Timothy sat up straight, not sure if what he was feeling was fear or excitement. “Is there such a thing?”
The organ player nodded. “It’s not so uncommon. Even you are a shapeshifter of sorts. A man’s soul can shift into all kinds of animals; into beings he never knew existed.”
Timothy sat and thought on this awhile, not speaking. The organ player changed his melody.
“Can’t you play something a bit happier?” Timothy asked. “Your melodies are so… unbearable.”
“Yes, you used that word before.”
“There is no other word for them.”
“And I have no other melodies. Do you not feel something when you hear me play?”
“Of course. That’s why I came to stop you.”
“You came to stop me from playing because you don’t wish to have any feelings at all, isn’t that right?”
“That’s impossible. Everyone has feelings.”
“But you don’t.”
“Of course I have feelings. Why must everyone bring this matter to attention? She said the same thing, you know. A husband should be emotionally engaging, he should be romantic, those sorts of things. She had lists of things she wanted me to be.”
“And so you broke off the engagement.”
“Why yes –” Timothy stopped, straightening his spine. “Why, how did you know such a thing?”
The organ player shrugged. “As soon as you walk through those doors to find me, I know everything about you.”
Timothy laughed, aggravated.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You must have heard the rumors about me then? I tell you, I had nothing to do with her death. Not a single thing.”
The organ player switched his melody once more. “I never said you did.”
“She mistook my intentions.”
“Possibly.”
“I thought it best not to burden her with my inability to make her happy. It was logical.”
“Yes, logical.”
Timothy turned his head to look out the church’s stained glass, the colors obstructing his view of the outside world he had come to despise.
“But…” Timothy added, suddenly tired to his core. “Feelings will always rule over logic, won’t they?”
The organ player switched his tune once more, Timothy chewed the inside of his lip, his eyes on the stained glass window, focused on the thief on the cross.
Today you’ll be with me in Paradise, Jesus had said.
Timothy laughed bitterly, suddenly realizing that Jesus had used the word Paradise for another place. Where Timothy lived now… this world… it was not intended for such a title.
“Why don’t you try to play?” the organ player asked.
Timothy looked away from the cross, his eyes now on the organ player. “I beg your pardon?”
“Try your hands at the keys,” the organ player said again. “They will respond to you.”
“I haven’t played a tune since I was a child. No, no. I should be going.”
Timothy stood from the pew.
“The keys have a power of their own,” the organ player said. “They can take the shape of whatever you’re thinking. Don’t you want to see for yourself?”
Saying this, the organ player stopped, standing from his bench and stepping off to the side. He clasped his hands in front of himself, staring at Timothy blankly. It was not intimidating nor inviting, but it was enough to bring Timothy forward. It drew him closer. Much like the music itself.
He looked at the organ keys. They were ragged and worn, the tips broken off and warped. There was no possible way for this organ to play such incredible music.
So Timothy sat himself at the bench, even more curious.
And Timothy played.
It was the first time he was truly astounded with his own talent. He was able to play the keys effortlessly and passionately, with not a single lesson on the organ before this day. His fingers trickled across the keys, every deep and disturbing memory released into every note. It was euphoria. He loved the way his misery felt, how it sounded, how it vibrated in his chest as he played.
He continued to play… and play… and play… until he had forgotten his own name.
But it was not important. He wasn’t Timothy anymore and he didn’t need to be.
As he played, the door of the church creaked open, and a man in uniform came through the door. His eyes were still drying from the funeral of his comrades in a great war – the second one of its kind, which had ended the week before – his heart heavy and aching for catharsis. His name was Christopher. He had a wife and a daughter. He lived on Nantucket Drive. He loved his mother’s catfish.
And his soul had become something he no longer recognized.
“Hello and welcome,” Timothy said. “You must have come to see me play.”
QUESTIONS
There are lots of bits to find in this story — things hidden in the narration. But instead of telling you what they all mean, I’m going to go full English teacher mode on you and give you questions to let you figure it out for yourselves…
1. Why can’t the children hear the music?
2. What is the significance of Immanuel Kant, Fredrich Nietzsche, and Soren Kierkegaard?
3. Why does the weather get colder as Timothy gets closer to the church?
4. What does the church represent?
5. Why is the music louder in the streets than in the church?
6. What does the music represent? Why is it addicting?
7. What year is it when Timothy meets Christopher?
8. The title, The Tragic Organ Player, has a double meaning. What is it?
9. What else did you notice in the story?