for pushing me so hard into music. Or the antique store for not going through their merchandise before selling it. If only someone else had seen that piano before me. If only that piano wasn’t meant for me. If only what was inside, wasn’t meant for me to find.
It was a 1920’s player piano, and in bad shape at that. All the parts were there, but it was rough. But rough in a good way. The sound was good but out of tune, and there were some dead notes. I liked it immediately. A six pack for each of my friends secured it to my house, but it was up to me and me alone to bring this monster back to life.
I started with the pedals, which only needed to be reattached. Then the shelving was removed and refinished. Next the missing keys actually replaced with some cheap vinyl. Then, while trying to find out the cause for the dead notes, I found it. It was an old stained manila envelope. It had no markings what so ever, and looked like it had never been opened. I carefully pulled it out of the cavity, and turned it over in my hands. It felt thick, like there were a hundred or so pages that had been fused all together. I opened it carefully while secretly hoping for stacks of money to fall out of it, but only loose leaf paper did. The paper had writing on it, but most of it is so faded that you couldn’t make out what it said. I spent three days reading what I could and gathered all the papers together. It was unbelievable. It seemed to be a collection of confessions to hideous crimes committed throughout the years, although I couldn’t determine if it was one person or a group of confessors.
I went back to the antique store to get more information on where this piano came from and they only said up North somewhere. No luck there considering North is a big area to be from. I then went home and went over every inch of the piano. In the same place where I found the envelope, I found burned into the wood in small printing press letters,
I submit to you
These handwritten letters to the Devil
Meant to be and meant for you
As cities burn and cities level . . .
A chill ran through me as I read those words for the first time. What the hell did I buy? I took the letters to the police next, but the inconsistency and authentication of the pages was questioned. It was clear that a crazy person wrote these, or a group of crazies, but what they didn’t seem to understand was that just because it was crazy didn’t mean that it didn’t actually happen.
I did some investigating on my own and found that some of the dates actually matched up to some of the crimes committed. It became weirder and weirder the more I got involved, but the police seemed uninterested. Finally, I guess I was just compelled to get these stories heard so maybe some public outcry can motivate the police to get off of their asses and look into this legitimate lead, so I published the pages under the title that was burned into the inside of my piano, and here you are. And here are “The Handwritten Letters to the Devil” in the exact order that I read them in. I’m not sure if they are connected, or if they are even real. I will leave that up to you to decide for yourself.
Love’s Last Breath
She screamed. Oh, did she scream. She screamed like her last breath meant nothing to her. She belted out everything she had, without a care, or thought, or even an understanding of what it meant to me. Of how her last moments would stay with me forever. Like I wanted to remember her that way. Selfish bitch. When her eyes broke their veins like neon fault lines of color and despair, she looked at me. Looked through me. She saw who I really was for the first time, and I smiled.
I met her in September. She was skinny, tall, and dressed in black. Yet somehow tasteful, and respectful. The first thing I noticed about her was her laugh. It seemed to make molecules themselves dance. I yearned for it. I required it. And it was mine.
Our first date was a walk. Low commitment was a mutual thing. We walked, and she laughed, and I soaked it in like rays from the sun. I used to boast I could survive that way, like some sort of photosynthetic monster. Little did she know.
We made love, and grew close. Everyday new admissions, and every day I grew to love her more. I hated to see her sad. It killed me. I grew to depend on her spirit to lift me up, and when she couldn’t, I would starve.
She had friends and family, of course they had to go. Little by little they began to disappear. Everybody that tried to steal her away from me ended up missing. It started with her cat. Always on her lap, always demanding affection. Always taking what was rightfully mine. It had an accident with the front and rear tires of my car. Yet somehow when I curled up in her lap and told her the cat was dead, she didn’t laugh. I felt hurt. I wasn’t a better substitute than her cat? She had no sympathy for my feelings.
Next, Monday night with her parents became Tuesday morning at the police station. Her best friends began to ignore her calls. Then her nosey know it all sister caught on to me. At this point the bodies were really stacking up and they were hard to hide. In hindsight, the iced over swimming pool was not a very good hiding spot. She had to go.
You would think that with all the holes in her life, that she would cling to me. She would be drawn to me more often, but she became secluded, and I hungered for her. Then it happened. She told me that with all of her family disappearing that she wanted to move away. That she was breaking up with me. She actually told me that she feared for her safety. Like I would let somebody hurt her. I took offense. I kissed her gently, and then asked her to laugh for me. She just stared. Can you believe it? Just stared at me. With one hand, I slid down her cheek and pinched the end of her chin. I told her to laugh, and she began to cry, and as my hands slid to her throat and her body to the floor, she began to scream.
I wish I could say that this is my only confession. But like God is to wine, so am I to steam, and this little engine did what it could. The following pages are all my confessions, and I ask you not to judge me, for I will be the one by which all others are judged.
Patient 604: James William Colace (Self given Nickname, “Silly Willy”)
Psychiatric log; day 1 of patient 604, James Colace. Our appointment was scheduled for 9:00 am on September 26, 2013. I arrived as I always do in the morning at 7:45 am to prepare for the days work and be ready by 8:00 am sharp. I spent the first fifteen minutes readying coffee, tea, and candies for my patients. This calms my patients subtly if need be during our conversations and therapy if our sessions grow too intense. I spent the next forty-five minutes reviewing the court delivered file on patient 604. His file was like many others I have seen across my desk; acute obsessive compulsive disorder, extreme bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, insomnia, depression, alcohol disorder, derealization disorder, OCPD, morbid jealousy disorder . . . etc. The list went on. There was no reason to continue counting disorders. Issues like this are only started by dramatic effects on ones childhood. Given James Colace was born March 27, 1987 makes him only 26. If I am to aid him in any form or fashion I need to reach the route of his issues: when they started, why they started, his perception of the events that transpired . . . etc. The file also showed all of the patient’s previous physiatrists, there were eleven. Many prescribed drugs but none were found in James’ blood work or hair follicles.
The second file was one of dismay, his conviction file; six accounts of assault and battery, three of which were police officers, two of which were women in their thirties, and one male body builder. Also in the file were DUI and DWI charges.
