Post by Lurr'n ♥ on Jan 21, 2007 2:50:02 GMT -5
“Christ,” Sam muttered under his breath as he tried to pull his collar up impossibly more as the drizzle began to turn into rain. He crossed the dilapidated commercial side-street and looked up to see if he could find some immediate refuge from the water. Ah, there it was. The old Knightsbridge, up on the next block. He increased his footfalls, but his old Reeboks were soaking in water pretty fast; however, mostly due to several holes.
Sam wove through the thin poles of the scaffolding hugging the face of the old building… apparently they were doing a renovation. Thank god; they had planned to tear the place down for years. The lean young man rested against the wall adjacent to the boarded-up box office, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it, and watched as his first puff of smoke eased away from him in the dark, cold, wet air like a ghost. It was a simple pleasure, really, to be able to watch the tendrils of smoke dance on the end of his cig or escape through his nostrils. But as it seemed, he was not forty seconds into his smoke break, when an odd and very distant sound barely kissed the drum of his ear. It wasn’t voices, but… music, rather. When Sam listened a little more, straining, he ascertained that it was the sound of nimble fingers passing over the keys of a piano.
Who would be playing in this district at this hour? All there was were derelict storefronts, and the owners of those stores closed shop at least an hour ago. As he took another drag and thought, and listened, he realized that the only place that it could possibly be coming from was inside the theater. He looked around a little from where he stood and immediately noted that both double entry doors were chained and locked. Sam stamped out his cigarette butt a minute later, after resigning to search for the source of the music. He peered around the corner into the alley and decided to try the door there. His eyes strained for a moment before he was able to read the word “backstage”, painted and peeling, on the door there. To his dismay, the door was barred shut, but as he looked down the alley a little farther, he found another door. It was nearly blocked by pieces of wood, empty cans of paint, soaking cardboard boxes, and bags of trash, but after stepping over these, he found that the door was indeed unlocked.
His hands, now numb and wet, pushed the door inward ever so carefully, so that there was about an inch between the door and the frame. Inside was the pitchest shade of black that he had ever seen, and even felt a sharp jolt of fear pierce him for just a moment before realizing that the piano was louder than before. He opened the door wide enough for him to step into the dark room. The minute he let go of the door, however, it shut almost instantly, leaving him stuck in the void.
Sam was shaking a little bit now, as he reached into his pocket for one of his lighters, and nervously flicked the small flame into existence. It barely lit the space, which was a small room filled with dirty tarps, ladders, more buckets of paint, and several heavy-duty power tools. The music grew louder still when he stepped out of the room and into a long hallway. He read the writing on the doors: “costumes & props” “boiler room” “circuit breaker”.
Sam’s shoes were making more sound than he wished, as they repeatedly came into harsh contact with the paper rolled out on the floor. But as he approached the end of the hallway, there seemed to be a faint light peering out from under a door to his left. Putting the lighter back into his pocket, he quietly opened the door. The music was very loud now, and he was very close. In fact, as it seemed, the mysterious pianist whom he sought for was just beyond a last door. Striding over to it, he reached out and grabbed the old knob…
Sam wove through the thin poles of the scaffolding hugging the face of the old building… apparently they were doing a renovation. Thank god; they had planned to tear the place down for years. The lean young man rested against the wall adjacent to the boarded-up box office, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it, and watched as his first puff of smoke eased away from him in the dark, cold, wet air like a ghost. It was a simple pleasure, really, to be able to watch the tendrils of smoke dance on the end of his cig or escape through his nostrils. But as it seemed, he was not forty seconds into his smoke break, when an odd and very distant sound barely kissed the drum of his ear. It wasn’t voices, but… music, rather. When Sam listened a little more, straining, he ascertained that it was the sound of nimble fingers passing over the keys of a piano.
Who would be playing in this district at this hour? All there was were derelict storefronts, and the owners of those stores closed shop at least an hour ago. As he took another drag and thought, and listened, he realized that the only place that it could possibly be coming from was inside the theater. He looked around a little from where he stood and immediately noted that both double entry doors were chained and locked. Sam stamped out his cigarette butt a minute later, after resigning to search for the source of the music. He peered around the corner into the alley and decided to try the door there. His eyes strained for a moment before he was able to read the word “backstage”, painted and peeling, on the door there. To his dismay, the door was barred shut, but as he looked down the alley a little farther, he found another door. It was nearly blocked by pieces of wood, empty cans of paint, soaking cardboard boxes, and bags of trash, but after stepping over these, he found that the door was indeed unlocked.
His hands, now numb and wet, pushed the door inward ever so carefully, so that there was about an inch between the door and the frame. Inside was the pitchest shade of black that he had ever seen, and even felt a sharp jolt of fear pierce him for just a moment before realizing that the piano was louder than before. He opened the door wide enough for him to step into the dark room. The minute he let go of the door, however, it shut almost instantly, leaving him stuck in the void.
Sam was shaking a little bit now, as he reached into his pocket for one of his lighters, and nervously flicked the small flame into existence. It barely lit the space, which was a small room filled with dirty tarps, ladders, more buckets of paint, and several heavy-duty power tools. The music grew louder still when he stepped out of the room and into a long hallway. He read the writing on the doors: “costumes & props” “boiler room” “circuit breaker”.
Sam’s shoes were making more sound than he wished, as they repeatedly came into harsh contact with the paper rolled out on the floor. But as he approached the end of the hallway, there seemed to be a faint light peering out from under a door to his left. Putting the lighter back into his pocket, he quietly opened the door. The music was very loud now, and he was very close. In fact, as it seemed, the mysterious pianist whom he sought for was just beyond a last door. Striding over to it, he reached out and grabbed the old knob…
