The guitar and its ghosts

‘This one will wake the dead,’ the shopkeeper whispered. The guitar sat on its stand, alone in the red carpeted inner sanctum. Six strings shone out against a jet-black body and I’m sure its chord was in my head already – the one that I knew had to be played.

It cost a small fortune but I couldn’t have done anything else. I carried it carefully up the hill under the stars. My left hand was in position, the fingers resting lightly behind the frets. Taking the plectrum, I said a short prayer, and brought it gently down across the strings.

At first I thought nothing would happen. But then the notes took on their own life and I could feel them resonating, as the ground opened before me to reveal the gaping chasm of Sheol below.

As the shades crawled out, I searched each weary face. Half the night seemed to have passed before I saw you. I know it was selfish to have disturbed your rest but I just had to say goodbye properly and how much I miss you. I think you understood.

The second chord closed the portal and I was left with the early morning birdsong.