3/2/2019:
For as long as I have know, my uncle has been into records. Vinyl records. He’s the type of person that everyone else would call an audiophile, but who audiophiles would call a beginner. An amateur. But if there was ever a crowning achievement to his vinyl career, it would be his record player.
He bought it about two years ago. When I say record player, I don’t mean one of those sleek things you can buy online. This was a genuine antique. The thing looked like it was from the 1900s. It had that giant tube on the top, like a brass instrument. But there was nothing he was more proud of than that ancient thing. That’s why it’s so surprising that I received it.
He died about a month ago. It’s fine, we were never really that close. That’s part of the reason it’s so surprising I got his record player, and his vinyl collection alongside it. They just showed up at my door one day. I knew the collection was his, obviously, I knew that much about him, but whoever delivered the box full of his stuff didn’t even bother to label it.
His collection had a lot of stuff in it. Some classics, some classicals, some modern pieces put onto an older format, but the thing that was off about his collection was one addition. The white record. I’m going to call it that because it had no other distinguishing features. The entire record was this off white color, and it was placed on the… the place where you put the record. As soon as I got the player, the white record was placed on that place where you put it. It had nothing on it to tell you what it was.
For whatever reason, I decided to play the record. The player was ancient, it worked on a spring, I think. I had to wind it up slowly, and it never seemed like I could get it to a point where it was fully wound up. The record started playing, and it was so strange. I can’t remember anything about what the music was, other than that it was beautiful. Then, the spring unwound, and I was left alone. But it didn’t feel like it. It felt like there was something with me. In my house.
I searched everywhere for it. In every cabinet, every corner, but I couldn’t find it. I knew it should be there, but it wasn’t. It was absent, just like the music. But I knew. I knew he was there. And that means he knew I was there, in the house with him.
4/4/2019:
I played the record again. I felt compelled to do it. Like I needed to. I wound up the spring so I could hear the next verses of that beautiful tune ringing out against a house that was supposed to be empty. And I remembered. The next portion of the song was even more beautiful, I felt euphoric joy like I had never felt, and I knew that the song completed me. But I hadn’t finished it. The song. And whatever was in my house wasn’t finished either. This time, I didn’t just know it was here, I smelt it. The putrid stink of meat ready to slough off of it’s bones.
4/23/2019:
I tried to quit listening. I tried to go back to my job. To distract myself with the pleasantries of daily life. But every time I was close to forgetting, I smelt his putrid smell. And he reminded me of how holy, how exhalted I felt when I listened to that record.
So I went back. I cranked that holy yet scorned machine so it would play it’s next portion of the tune. And it was perfect. But I could taste him. The smell of his sweat on my lips, and the taste of his bile on my tongue. And I knew he was getting closer. He wants it all to himself. He thinks he’s the only one deserving of the music, of it’s holy embrace, but he is unholy, and wretched.
4/29/2019:
This time when I listened to the record, I could hear him. His feet, stomping on the ground, shaking the very earth he walked on. His wretched twisting bones crunching with each movement, and his howling screams trying to dissuade me from perfection. I hate him, oh so much, and with his screams in my ear I tried to quit. I told myself his wretched cries would interrupt the perfection of the music, of those blessed words. I went back to my job, but it was all quite quaint. I do not look down on my fellow humans, but I was, I am, beyond them. They have not seen the holy light of the music like I have, and they have not been subject to the cries of the wretch. They complained that I smelled like a corpse, and whispered over the fact that my footsteps were heavy, and that my bones seemed to creak every-time I moved. They are simpletons, jealous of my blessing.
5/2/2019:
I listened to the record again, and it was perfect. Or near so. I can see him now. Standing in corners. He looks shockingly normal, wretched beast that he is. He is tall, but not to an outrageous degree. His skin is gray, but not a disturbing amount. All things considered, the wretch looks normal. But he does not have a face. He is like the music, for when I look away, I can not recall what he looks like. But the music is blessed and holy, and the wretch is wicked and monstrous. I cannot bear myself to look upon his demonic form, and I know that when I play the final portion of the record I will become exalted. But as I grow closer to holiness, I grow closer to wickedness. I know he will be able to touch me when I play the final verse, and that he will snap my neck. But in the moment before my death, I will be perfect and blank. Just like the white record.