Accordion of Doom by Brian Jackson

Brian Jackson is an amateur writer who is trying, like many others, to get his words read. He is retired and lives with his wife, Melanie, a published author, in the sierra foothills. Brian is the editor in cheif of DRR.

Billy Spangles stepped timidly into the back of the old antique shop expecting to find a mess of dust and debris and instead finding a cozy and warm sitting room. Apparently the pride the proprietor showed in the front of his shop spilled over into his storage area. Billy smiled as he breathed in the sweet smell of aged leather and furniture polish. Looking quickly around the room he allowed his face to register his concern at not immediately spotting the object of his desire.

"It's this way, Mr. Spangles," the proprietor purred, then led the way through aisles of merchandise to the very back of his shop. There stood a solid steel door set into a brick wall.

The proprietor removed a ring of keys from his belt buckle and used them to open the myriad of bolts and locks that held the door shut. As he worked, padlocks and chains were dropped to the floor. Billy smiled finding the precautions being taken to be more than a little ridiculous. Of course, the thing had a formidable reputation, but this… this was too much. Wasn't it?

Standing aside, Billy watched as the last of the locks was released and the large door was hauled open to the plaintive sound of creaks and squeals. In the end Billy had to throw his own shoulder into the effort to open the door fully. Once open, the proprietor stepped inside a small room and clicked on a bare bulb that hung overhead.

The only piece of furniture the room contained was a well worn wooden table. In the center of the table sat a small, brown, leather suitcase which was odd for being almost perfectly square. Billy felt his heart skip a beat as he took in the simple yet awesome sight.

Stepping into the room himself, Billy ran a hand over the top of the case clearing away a thin film of dust. "Joey" said a row of diagonally cut, metallic letter stickers. Feeling an unexpected sensation of burning heat coming from the suitcase, Billy pulled his hand away in surprise.

"May I?" he asked with barely contained excitement, looking up into the proprietor's concerned yet weary eyes with pleading. The proprietor merely nodded his head by way of reply and stepped away as if wanting to be well clear of the thing.

Excitedly, Billy stepped to the front of the case and pushed out the square buttons releasing the clasps. He then slid his thumbs into the crack that formed in the case and slowly lifted its lid. A glow coming from inside lit his face causing his eyes to shoot wide in wonderment.

Lying within the case, padded in plush black velvet, was a fire red accordion, the likes of which Billy had never seen. Before the case was fully open, Billy found his hands shooting forward to caress the keyboard. His vision of the accordion became blurry before he realized that he was crying and wiped the tears from his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.

"My God," Billy croaked out of his constricted throat.

"You'll find that God had little to do with the making of this monstrosity."

"It's so… beautiful."

Billy stood limp and stooped over yet transfixed, as if two steel beams had been driven from the floor through his eyes pinning him in place. And his eyes glowed, possibly reflecting back the intense light seemingly came from the accordion.

"You like it?" the proprietor asked, more to break the eerie silence than out of need of verbal confirmation.

"I love it," Billy replied, all the while keeping his eyes fixed upon the figure of power sitting before him.

The music box had a treble keyboard composed of white, ivory keys separated by sharps and flats done in slightly warn teak. The bellows were as if new, as was the flame red bakelite body of the full-size squeezebox. Billy saw the offset dots of a musette setting on the treble switches and felt a shiver run down his spine.

"May I?" Billy asked, looking forlornly to the proprietor. Again, the man simply nodded his assent.

Lifting the instrument from the suitcase as if he was lifting the most delicate piece of art, Billy was surprised that a 41 key treble with a 120 key base full-sized unit could weigh so little. The straps on the device were aged black leather that would have seemed inadequate had not Billy already lifted the box.

Shrugging his shoulders into the straps, Billy felt the bellows pad of the device press against his chest. No sooner had the accordion been donned than Billy's fingers were aching to play. However, before he could do so, he felt a cautionary hand placed on his.

"Before you play, you should be forewarned," the proprietor intervened. "No matter what else you do, you must never play Lady of Spain."

Billy's first reaction was to ask the proprietor if he was joking, but by the expression on his face he could clearly see that he was not. Before he could ask any further questions, Billy found his fingers pulled across the keyboard to play a series of Argentinean Tangos followed by his personal transcriptions of several numbers by Bach, Beethoven, and Chopin. Next came a handful of classic polkas followed by several French Valses and some traditional Balkan pieces.

The more that Billy played the more he was consumed by a mad desire to play on through the night and never stop. His arms worked the bellows as if he was trying madly to breathe life into a dying world. His hands were whipped into frenzy, moving at incredible speed but still managing to play each note crisply and with depthless passion. It wasn't until Billy moved onto a yet another new song that things began to go very wrong.

It felt as if red hot spikes were being driven into his temples. His eyes, already closed in ecstasy, clamped shut even harder from the searing pain that emerged from the center of his brain and emanated outward to consume the small room.

Billy didn't reopen his eyes until he felt his hands being violently slapped from the keyboard. His first reaction was to strike back, but he held himself realizing that with the end of his playing came a cessation of pain which his body welcomed wholeheartedly. Looking before him, he saw the proprietor's grim face staring back at him. He noticed that blood dripped from the man's ears and ran down his neck to disappear inside the collar of his shirt.

"What happened," Billy asked weakly.

"Lady of Spain, you fool. You played Lady of Spain."

Having no remembrance of what he had played, Billy looked around himself and noticed that new cracks had formed in the walls since he had entered the room. Could such cracks have actually formed in such a short time? Could they possibly be a result of his playing?

"I can see that you do not yet realize what you hold in your arms," the proprietor chastised as he motioned for Billy to step toward him. While he removed the accordion straps from Billy's shoulders, he continued to view Billy with a look of disgust on his face.

"What? What is it? What's so special about this accordion? I can feel that there's real power here."

"This is the genesis, the source," the proprietor said in explanation. "It has been with us since the beginning of time. From this came all others. This music box was there to play the snake charmers music when the serpent hissed in Eve's ear and later to cause the walls of Jericho to crumble. It was there at the crossroads in the devil's hands as he tried to tempt Robert Johnson to lay down his guitar forever and instead take up the accordion. Now it's hungry to rise again."

And with this explanation, the proprietor tried to close the case but was stopped by Billy's outstretched hand.

"No, wait."

The proprietor waited for Billy to say more. Billy stood silently and eventually allowed his hand to slip from the man's arm so he could slide his hand once more along the keyboard of the accordion.

"I think that I understand now," Billy said from a dreamy state. "And I think I can control it."

"This is foolish," the proprietor barked back. "You can not control it. No one can. I should never have made it available."

"But you did," Billy said anxiously. "I'll double my offer."

Billy could see greed light up the proprietor's eyes, but still the man looked unconvinced.

"I'll triple it," Billy said insistently.

And with that, the bargain was struck. Billy left the shop that night in the pouring rain with a worn, leather suitcase tucked protectively between his arm.

While Billy exited the establishment, the proprietor used the sleeve of his coat to wipe his nose which always seemed to be running.

The club was smoky and the place was packed. A jazz trio led by a smoking hot sax player was on stage entertaining the crowd, but still there was an air of expectancy about the place. The crowd was enjoying the music, but they were also waiting for something. Something more, something different, something new.

Each number the trio played was met by polite applause, but the group received an ovation only when they announced their last song of the evening. As the stage was cleared and a simple stool was placed before a microphone, the audience moved to the edge of their seats in anticipation. Then the lights dimmed until a single spot alone lit the stage. A mellow smooth voice began to intone a soulful introduction.

"Ladies and gentleman, The Diablo Club is proud to once more introduce the musical stylings of Billy Spangles and his accordion of fire."

The club exploded with spontaneous, unrestrained applause. For some time the stage remained empty until a timid looking, little man, partially obscured behind a full-sized, fire red accordion, stepped into the spotlight and wiggled up onto the stool. The club became silent at his appearance and remained so as he fiddled with his accordion straps and toggled its stops. Then he began to play.

The sounds that emanated from this little man and his instrument soared out over the audience. At times, the music had the power of a full piece symphony but again was sometimes as timid and playful as a single child's voice. The audience was lost in the tones as one piece led flawlessly into another. The performer did not stop playing until almost an hour had elapsed, then with sweat cascading down his face he threw his hands from the keyboard and let his body slump forward over his instrument, fully spent.

At the conclusion of the performance, the audience went wild. The applause was deafening and came to a crescendo as the crowd came to their feet with unbridled joy. Calls of "Bravo" and loud whistles dominated the small space for a full minute before the performer once more raised his head and the audience became silent. Then, the silence was suddenly broken.

"Play Lady of Spain, you no talent hack," a drunk in the corner of the club barked over the crowd to the stage. A gasp came over the audience as they shared a shocked intake of breath. How dare such a reprobate impose upon this time of magic with such a request?

The musician looked to the drunk with tired, rheumy eyes, then once more he began to play. This time a masterful rendition of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor was followed by a series of Scott Joplin rags and some truly beautiful arias from shows currently playing on Broadway.

Again, the accordionist stopped only to flop over his instrument in a display of utter fatigue. Again, his performance was met by a standing ovation. And then in the silence that followed someone spoke again.

"Play Lady of Spain, you soul sucking bastard," the surly voice bellowed.

This time the audience hushed, as if eager to see how the performer would handle the situation. The musician dabbed a trail of sweat from his brow. Rather than confront the drunk who wiggled and snorted, as any drunk would when begging for a fight, the performer looked out into the void above the crowd and began to play music like no one had ever heard.

This time, when the accordionist stopped there was only faint applause, followed by a pause as the audience stopped to see if the heckler would speak again. And sure enough, he did.

"Play Lady of Spain, you wretched little prick," the voice of a slovenly animal now growled from the audience.

At first, the remainder of the audience remained silent. Then another voice spoke up in support of the first.

"Yeah. How come you never play Lady of Spain?"

Audience members began to murmur and look to one another in puzzlement. Then the murmur became louder as the issue of Lady of Spain was thoroughly discussed.

Looking back to the audience, the performer appeared physically rattled by the audience reception as he had been physically drained by his performance. His expression was one that seemed to ask, "What more do you want of me? After all I'm already giving all that I can." He looked hurt as all the while the voice of his audience became louder and more agitated.

"Play Lady of Spain, you stupid piece of dog shit!" the drunken voice called once more.

This was the straw that broke the camels back. The performer's expression, rather than remaining cowed, took on the visage of purpose and determination. His lips parted in a snarl and he blew tiny bubbles of spittle between them.

"So, it's Lady of Spain you want. Well, the audience is always right, so it's Lady of Spain you shall get."

With his say having been said, Billy rose to his feet and started to play. From the very first strain the performance was agony to all within earshot. The heads of the people in the front row snapped back between their shoulder blades, their eyes wide and teeth gritted to form rictus grins. The candles burning on each of the tables burst into four foot columns of flame haloed by cascades of blistering cinders. Drinking glasses burst. Eardrums and blood vessels burst. Still, Billy and his instrument continued to dole out and unending stream of syncopated death.

When the music stopped, all in the club were dead with the exception of one. As draperies and furniture around the club burned while the drunk from the audience worked his was up to the stage. Standing before Billy's slumped body, he reached into his ears to remove the plugs that had saved his life. Then he began to tug Billy back and forth as he removed the accordion from his chest. Finding the case just off stage, he stored the instrument and made his way out the rear exit of the club.

While exiting the establishment, the drunk used the sleeve of his coat to wipe his nose which always seemed to be running.

From The Gazette, Volume LVI, Issue 54, Front Page

A major blaze in a downtown nightclub was responsible for the deaths of all in attendance at a jazz show late last night…

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© 2009 by Brian Jackson