Fugue by Noble Dust

I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t get rid of it. I knew I needed to face my fears and visit, but I put it off for months. Until now. I’m writing this down in perhaps a misguided attempt to remember everything as clearly as I can.

I finally made the hour-long drive on a gloomy October afternoon

Paralyzed with fear, I refused to move an inch. Memory flooded over me; the second floor bedroom overlaid with childhood imaginings of ghostly piano performances

…and the pastor screaming into the microphone “Lord touch us in the deepest place” and the uninvited hand from behind me in the choir reaches underneath. Confusion, fear, unwanted pleasure, anger, all at once, and the overwhelming noise…

I almost laughed; as I pulled up, that old Poe story about an ancient crumbling house flashed through my mind. But I couldn’t find any levity in the overly dramatic comparison. I was still on edge.

he garage sank into the ground like flabby skin draped on an old man’s chest.

Overcome with nausea I begin slipping into an uninvited memory.

I never looked back. And I’ve never gone back, and I never will. And I don’t need to.

. The first person voice, however, feels more hallucinatory (à la Poe) and less surreal or magically realist which I only can guess wasn't the author's intent.

as I pulled up, that old Poe story about an ancient crumbling house flashed through my mind

It seems to me to be an analogy for working through trauma by confronting it head on.

As piano after piano comes into sight, we begin to doubt the author's assertion that this is real. How can this be real?

I didn't like all of the references to classical compositions and composers that I've never heard

I slowly packed up and walked down the stairs, through the sea of pianos, and out the back door to my jeep. I never looked back. And I’ve never gone back, and I never will. And I don’t need to.

My jeep cherokee jostled its way to the back where the garage sank into the ground like flabby skin draped on an old man’s chest.

Fleeing, pursuing, coming together.
We humans love to playfully search for and find something, rediscover the familiar, and track down the new. We can do all this when listening to a fugue. [...] one voice introduces a concise melody, called a theme. A second voice takes up this melody, but because it starts later, the first voice is always a little ahead of it. It “flees”, so to speak, from the second voice. As soon as the second voice starts with the theme, the first voice develops a musical counterpart, the so-called counterpoint. Later, the first voice takes up the theme again and the second voice has the counterpoint, and so it goes on ...
[...]
The fugue can be performed by vocal or instrumental voices. Keyboard instruments that can play several voices, such as the organ, harpsichord or piano, are particularly ideal for playing fugues.
Each fugue movement can conveys its own mood: joyful, dance-like, reflective, contemplative.

I had no desire to go back. None whatsoever. But my uncle’s will made it perfectly clear: the old mansion would go to me after his death [...] I knew I needed to face my fears and visit, but I put it off for months. Until now. I’m writing this down in perhaps a misguided attempt to remember everything as clearly as I can. It’s like waking from a vivid but surreal dream: everything seems so real but it fades within minutes unless you write it down. The difference is that this really happened.

[...] The air seemed heavy,like I was driving through a viscous underwater dreamscape. There was nothing good on the radio, and I found that the nasal sound of it grated on my nerves anyway. I drove in silence. In my mind, arriving at the mansion would calm me, but in reality I only felt a tenseness at the sight of the monstrous place. I almost laughed; as I pulled up,that old Poe story about an ancient crumbling house flashed through my mind. But I couldn’t find any levity in the overly dramatic comparison. I was still on edge.

"The Fall of the House of Usher" is considered the best example of Poe's "totality", wherein every element and detail is related and relevant.

The presence of a capacious, disintegrating house symbolizing the destruction of the human body continues to be a characteristic element in Poe's later work.

"The Fall of the House of Usher" shows Poe's ability to create an emotional tone in his work, specifically emphasizing feelings of fear, impending doom, and guilt. These emotions center on Roderick Usher, who, like many Poe characters, suffers from an unnamed disease.

The driveway was made of old stones which had long since become uneven and infected with weeds. My jeep cherokee jostled its way to the back where the garage sank into the ground like flabby skin draped on an old man’s chest. The mansion had been a deep burgundy but was now vaguely gray with barely any paint left on the siding. As I walked up, the house began to take shape in both my vision and my memory. Its hoary old angles propped themselves up like creaky legs. The Victorian crestings, modest wall carvings, two bay windows and two porches revealed themselves to me, but as caricatures of my childhood memories.

[...] I moved into the foyer, where the first group of pianos were packed in like sardines. There were more than I remembered; it was a challenge just to wade through them to get to the living room. Spinets, studio uprights, baby grands; there were all shapes and sizes and colors. One lone concert grand was even stuffed into the hall between the den and the staircase. The claustrophobic haze of the unreal house dulled my senses [...] I reached the old bedroom I used to stay in. It housed two baby grands. Mystified, I wandered towards the master bedroom and found half a spinet sticking out of it into the hall. I took the side stairs to the attic where I finally found space. It was as empty and forlorn as I remembered.

Now, bear with me here. I knew I needed to stay the night. Just once. [...] I shacked up in the attic [...] by 9pm I turned off the lights, bedded down, and tried to fall asleep.

Just at the edge of perception I heard the slow, droning notes of Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1 waft up from some abandoned corner of the first floor. Paralyzed with fear, I refused to move an inch. [...] Somehow I went back to sleep, but at exactly 1:48am I was jolted awake again. This time it was louder, and multiple pianos at once; maybe three. I thought I could make out a Bach Invention, but it was overshadowed by the clanging of something resembling Liszt. Spiraling deeper and deeper into a state of nightmare unreality, I nodded off again as if drugged. Only to be woken again at 2:48am -

Every piano in the house is playing, and at full volume, like the clocks at the beginning of Pink Floyd’s Time, but ten thousand times worse. Every imaginable note out of eighty-eight is sounding at once: fast, slow, glissandos, massive tone clusters, Baroque, Romantic, Serialism, it’s all happening at the same time

Overcome with nausea I begin slipping into an uninvited memory. The church filled with worshippers, the music blaring, a woman running up and down the side aisle barking like a dog, and the pastor screaming into the microphone “Lord touch us in the deepest place!” as an uninvited hand from behind me in the choir reaches underneath. Confusion, fear, unwanted pleasure, anger, all at once, and the overwhelming noise, and an old man rising from his wheelchair to walk, and the barking woman now squawking like an angry bird, and people kneeling on the floor in tears of deliverance, chaos...and everything happening at once, overwhelmed, unknown feelings, greedy thoughts, every emotion groping me at once, total annihilation -

I woke sobbing. Arms covered in self-inflicted scratching. The first rays of morning were just spilling over the edge of the dusty window sill. Total silence aside from me. Slowly, as sunlight filled the empty attic, I calmed down and just laid there staring at the ceiling, feeling absolutely nothing. No memory of how I got there. I don’t know how long I stayed in my sleeping bag, but gradually, my awareness of normal human experience returned. I slowly packed up and walked down the stairs, through the sea of pianos, and out the back door to my jeep. I never looked back. And I’ve never gone back, and I never will. And I don’t need to.

How much more it must mean to someone who speaks that language. I envy such knowledge: it makes all experience richer.

A gymnopedie would be an ancient Greek dance of naked or unarmed men;

Bach invention is more straightforward,

Listz presumed louder

Glissando is a gliding note, moving from one note to another (which is stepless with trumpets, violence, etc).

I've studied at the conservatory and there's nothing particularly meaningful about the musical references.

Every piano in the house is playing, and at full volume, like the clocks at the beginning of Pink Floyd’s Time, but ten thousand times worse. Every imaginable note out of eighty-eight is sounding at once: fast, slow, glissandos, massive tone clusters, Baroque, Romantic, Serialism, it’s all happening at the same time. Overcome with nausea I begin slipping into an uninvited memory.

This time it was louder, and multiple pianos at once; maybe three.

Overcome with nausea I begin slipping into an uninvited memory

I never looked back. And I’ve never gone back, and I never will. And I don’t need to.

Memory flooded over me; the second floor bedroom overlaid with childhood imaginings of ghostly piano performances, safely filed away as make-pretend that now loomed their heads like leery monsters.

The church filled with worshippers, the music blaring.......and the pastor screaming into the microphone “Lord touch us in the deepest place!” as an uninvited hand from behind me in the choir reaches underneath.

Memory flooded over me; the second floor bedroom overlaid with childhood imaginings of ghostly piano performances, safely filed away as make-pretend that now loomed their heads like leery monsters.
— Noble Dust

I also think that bedroom is ominous.

Just at the edge of perception I heard the slow, droning notes of Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1 waft up from some abandoned corner of the first floor.

Does everything scary happen on the second floor?

I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t get rid of it.

Particularly about houses in dreams.

here the garage sank into the ground like flabby skin draped on an old man’s chest.

Memory flooded over me; the second floor bedroom overlaid with childhood imaginings of ghostly piano performances, safely filed away as make-pretend that now loomed their heads like leery monsters.

and the pastor screaming into the microphone “Lord touch us in the deepest place!” as an uninvited hand from behind me in the choir reaches underneath.

I woke sobbing. Arms covered in self-inflicted scratching. The first rays of morning were just spilling over the edge of the dusty window sill. Total silence aside from me. Slowly, as sunlight filled the empty attic, I calmed down and just laid there staring at the ceiling, feeling absolutely nothing. No memory of how I got there. I don’t know how long I stayed in my sleeping bag, but gradually, my awareness of normal human experience returned.

I wonder if this author has ever read Murakami.

I would appreciate some indication of the locale

The first person voice feels more hallucinatory (à la Poe) and less surreal or magically realist which I can only guess wasn't the author's intent.

I interpreted this as representing layers of trauma occupying the narrators mind, dusty bulky things crowding out the possibility of growth.

I didn't like all of the references to classical compositions and composers that I've never heard
— ToothyMaw

Agreed, I felt they muted the emotional impact of the climax.

I like the creative conflation of two types of fugue.

But this reader gets the sense that the narrator has found peace.

there's nothing particularly meaningful about the musical references.

Yup. I agree about the uncle. He left the mansion with all its traumas in his will. To haunt and taunt even beyond the grave.

Here I feel the author hints at the nightime playing being all a dream.

But this reader gets the sense that the narrator has found peace.
— Amity

:flower: Thanks Amity as always for your detailed reading and analysis. You basically got it all spot on. I'll mention you in a general comment below with a few things

I used to sing in a regional children's choir that rehearsed in the attic there a few times, for what reason I can't remember.

Amity, as to the exact times, it was probably unnecessary to include, but it's a reference to Jung's synchronicity concept, which I'm sure would be considered "woo-woo" by most here. I remember reading something about those dealing with addiction or trauma experiencing it in relation to time. I personally always seem to look at the clock at 2:48. I figured I'd include it.