Page 13

Sandra Reeves moved through the darkened hallway of Melody Forge Studios, enjoying the stillness of the late hour.

This was her favorite time—when the day’s sessions had ended, when the musicians and technicians had departed, and the building belonged to her alone.

She paused at the threshold of Studio A, breathing in the lingering scent of coffee and the subtle electrical warmth of equipment that had been running all day.

The recording room was dim, moonlight spilling through the high windows and catching on the brass hardware of instruments left in stands.

A guitar gleamed in the corner, patient and waiting for tomorrow’s session.

Sandra flipped a single switch, bathing the space in soft amber light from the recessed fixtures.

“Goodnight, old friend,” she whispered to the empty room.

Melody Forge Studios sat on the outskirts of Pinecrest, nestled between aging warehouses that provided both privacy and the acoustics she prized.

What had once been a forgotten industrial space she’d transformed into a haven for musicians, both established and aspiring.

The exterior remained deliberately understated, but inside, behind sound-dampening walls and specialized doors, she’d created something magical.

Sandra’s routine never varied. She moved from studio to studio, carefully powering down mixing boards, checking that microphones were properly stored, and ensuring instruments were secure.

Each step was performed with precision born from years of practice.

The gradual diminishing of electrical hums—the studio’s heartbeat—marked her progress through the building.

In the control room, she ran her hand over the gleaming console one last time, pressing buttons in careful sequence.

One by one, the indicator lights faded, leaving only the faint red glow of standby mode.

She gathered scattered coffee mugs left by the day’s clients and stacked them by the small kitchenette sink.

Washing them would be tomorrow’s first task.

As Sandra entered the lobby, her gaze settled on her newest acquisition—an antique phonograph she’d purchased from Howard Mitchell’s estate sale just a few days ago.

Unlike the sleek, modern equipment that dominated her studio, the phonograph stood proudly anachronistic with its large wooden base and gleaming brass horn speaker curving elegantly upward like a morning glory blossom opening to the sun.

She approached it reverently, reaching out to feel the smooth wooden edge polished by hands from another era. Howard had kept it in immaculate condition. The cylinder-playing mechanism looked as though it could have been manufactured yesterday rather than over a century ago.

“Worth every penny,” she murmured, remembering the raised eyebrows and gentle ribbing from her sound engineers when she’d had it delivered.

“What’s next, Sandra? Wax tablets and a stylus?” Tony had joked, while Melissa had simply shaken her head. “You and your vintage toys.”

But they didn’t understand. This wasn’t just an antique; it was a piece of musical history—a direct connection to the pioneers who had first captured sound and preserved it for future generations.

For Sandra, who had dedicated her life to recording and producing music, these early devices held an almost sacred significance.

From the collection of cylinders she’d also purchased at the estate sale, Sandra selected one labeled in faded script: “In the Good Old Summer Time — Collins & Harlan, 1911.” She’d been saving this one for a quiet moment like this, when she could fully appreciate it without interruption.

Carefully, she wound the mechanism, feeling the spring tighten under her touch. The mechanical resistance felt satisfying, physical in a way digital technology never could be. She placed the wax cylinder onto its mount and gently lowered the needle.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a scratchy hiss emerged from the brass horn, followed by the tinny, distant voices of men long dead.

The melody stuttered into existence, imperfect and magical.

Despite the primitive recording technology, the joy in the performers’ voices traveled clearly across the century, which separated them from Sandra.

She closed her eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm. Almost unconsciously, her own voice rose to harmonize with the recording, filling in the gaps where time had degraded the cylinder’s surface. Her rich alto wrapped around the scratchy tenor voices, complementing without overpowering them.

For a brief, perfect moment, Sandra sang with ghosts:

“In the good old summer time,

In the good old summer time,

Strolling through the shady lanes

With your baby mine …”

When was the last time she’d really sung? Not the absent-minded humming while adjusting levels or the demonstration phrases to show a nervous young vocalist what she wanted, but truly singing with her whole self? The realization made her throat tighten. Years. It had been years.

The phonograph’s scratchy rendition continued as memories washed over her.

Spotlights so bright they turned the audience into a sea of darkness.

The weight of sequined gowns. The electric anticipation before stepping onto stages in cities whose names now blurred together.

The power of holding a thousand strangers captive with nothing but her voice.

And then, the gradual faltering. Notes that once came effortlessly, requiring more and more effort. The specialist in Chicago with his concerned frown. “Vocal cord nodules. Not uncommon in performers who push too hard for too long.”

Sandra’s hand drifted unconsciously to her throat as the memory of that diagnosis resurfaced.

The treatments had helped, but her range had never fully returned.

Rather than cling to a diminished version of her former glory, she’d chosen to step back, to channel her passion into helping others achieve what she once had.

The cylinder recording reached its conclusion, the final notes fading into a soft scratching sound before silence reclaimed the lobby. Sandra opened her eyes, the spell broken. She carefully lifted the needle and removed the cylinder, returning it to its protective sleeve.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said softly to the long-dead performers, feeling oddly comforted by their brief company across time.

The wall clock read 11:42 PM. Later than she’d realized. Sandra gathered her shoulder bag and keys, making a final sweep of the lobby. She adjusted the thermostat, checked that the alarm system was ready to arm, and switched off all but the security lights.

At the main entrance, she punched in the alarm code, which gave her sixty seconds to exit before activating. The familiar beeping began its countdown as she stepped outside into the cool night air, locking the door behind her.

The parking lot sat in dim half-light. The single lamppost near the entrance cast more shadows than illumination, its reach not extending to the far corner where her car waited. The neighboring warehouses loomed like sleeping giants, their darkened windows reflecting nothing.

Sandra started toward her car, her footsteps crunching loudly on the gravel. The sound seemed to amplify in the stillness, punctuating the cricket song that rose from the grassy areas beyond the lot.

Halfway to her vehicle, a prickling sensation crawled up her spine—a feeling that she wasn’t alone. She slowed, suddenly aware of how isolated she was. She slowed, feeling her isolation. At this hour, the industrial area was deserted.

Had that shadow by the dumpster moved? Sandra squinted, trying to pierce the darkness.

“Hello?” she called, immediately regretting drawing attention to herself. Her voice sounded small against the vastness of the night.

She quickened her pace, fumbling in her bag for her keys. The electronic fob felt reassuringly solid in her palm. Just thirty more steps to the car. Twenty.

A scuffing sound behind her made Sandra whirl around. A figure detached itself from the dark near the building, moving toward her with purposeful strides.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. “If you need to book studio time, you can call during business hours tomorrow.”

The figure didn’t respond but continued advancing. As he stepped into a patch of ambient light, Sandra’s mouth went dry. She thought she recognized him, but couldn’t remember from where or when.

Before she could process this recognition, he lunged forward with startling speed, reaching out, bearing held some kind of cord toward her throat. In the brief moment their gazes locked, she saw something cold and determined in his eyes that sent ice through her veins.

Sandra’s body reacted before her mind could catch up. She twisted sideways, swinging her heavy shoulder bag in a wild arc. It connected with the side of his face, throwing him off balance.

She didn’t waste her advantage. Sandra turned and ran, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her car was still too far. The studio was locked and alarmed. The open area of the parking lot offered no protection.

Sandra darted between two buildings into a narrow alley barely wider than her shoulders.

Rough brick scraped her arms as she squeezed through.

The passage opened into a small, dimly lit courtyard that appeared forgotten by all except the occasional graffiti artist whose work faintly glowed on several walls.

On the far end of the courtyard stood a warehouse that had been abandoned for years.

She risked a glance backward. The man had paused at the alley entrance, seemingly evaluating whether to follow her through the tight space or go around. The brief reprieve wouldn’t last long.

Then Sandra spotted a partially open loading dock door ahead, its bottom edge tilted up about three feet from the ground. Without hesitation, she dropped to her knees and rolled beneath it, scraping her back on the rough metal edge.

Inside, darkness enveloped her. She pushed on the loading dock door, hoping to close it behind her, but it was frozen in place.

As her eyes adjusted to the faint light coming through high windows, Sandra made out looming shapes of old machinery and stacked crates among dense clusters of cobwebs.

She crouched behind a large wooden crate, trying to control her ragged breathing. The exertion and fear made her heart pound so loudly she worried he might hear it. Who was this man? What did he want from her?

Got to get help, she thought, pulling out her phone to dial 911. But her heart sank when she saw that there was no signal. The metallic walls of the warehouse blocked out any communication with the outside.

Where was the man who had followed her now?

A scraping sound from the loading dock door answered her unspoken question. He had found her entry point. Then silence. Sandra knew he was inside, listening just as intently as she was.

Sandra scanned the dimness for an exit. Emergency door, another loading dock, anything. Near the far wall, she glimpsed a long-unlit exit sign. If she could reach it...

A stack of boxes crashed nearby, making her jump. He was systematically searching the area, getting closer. She couldn’t stay hidden forever.

Taking a deep breath, Sandra removed her shoes, holding them in one hand to silence her movements. She began creeping along the perimeter of crates, using them as shields between herself and where she thought the man was searching.

When she reached a clear stretch of floor between her position and the exit, Sandra hesitated. The open space offered no cover. She’d be completely exposed for at least ten seconds—more than enough time for him to spot her.

She had no choice. Gathering her courage, Sandra sprinted toward the exit.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind her. The exit door was just ahead, its push bar promising safety on the other side. She reached for it–

Something hard struck her back, sending her sprawling.

Sandra’s chin hit the concrete floor, pain exploding through her jaw as her shoes flew out of her hand. Before she could recover, a weight pressed down on her, knees digging into her spine.

In one fluid motion, her attacker wrapped something thin and tight around her neck. That cord. Sandra clawed at it, but he pulled it tighter, cutting off her air.

Her vision began to swim, dark patches appearing at the edges. Her lungs burned, desperate for oxygen. She thrashed wildly, but her strength was fading quickly.

As consciousness began to slip away, strange thoughts floated through Sandra’s mind. Who was this man? What was worth killing her for?

Her hands fell limply to her sides. The warehouse ceiling above her blurred, darkness closing in from all directions. Her last conscious thought was of the century-old voices on the cylinder recording—how they had continued to exist long after their bodies had returned to dust.

Then everything went black.