Unseen Read online

  Unseen

  By: Stephanie Erickson

  Copyright © 2014 Stephanie Erickson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof.

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9909293-1-4

  For Grace

  Table of Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  The Cure

  1.

  2.

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1.

  I was alone at the piano. The music flowed from my fingers to the keys, and then the hammers and the strings, filling the small room. I desperately needed the sense of peace I felt while playing—it freed me from the pressures closing in on me, from the constant drone of people’s voices in my head. At least until I hit the wrong note. After nearly six years of practicing Gaspard de la Nuit, I still couldn’t get it right. But Ravel’s piece was my Everest and, someday, I would conquer it.

  A knock at the practice room door let me know today wouldn’t be the day. “Come in,” I said, sighing.

  “I’m not surprised to find you here.” Professor Peterson quietly shut the door behind her.

  I shuffled the sheet music back into order. “Yes, well. I thought it might help.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  I glanced at my sheet music.

  She walked around me and peered at it through her thick, black-rimmed glasses. “Gaspard? Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”

  “I don’t know what my problem is. The paper’s mostly written. I just don’t think it’s terribly good, or that it represents my last six years of study well enough.”

  She scooped the skirt of her yellow suit beneath her as she sat in the chair next to the piano. “Maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. I know it seems like a big deal at the moment, but years from now, you’ll look back and wish for a problem as trivial as your Master’s Thesis.”

  I blinked at her. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  I harrumphed, and she laughed a little harder.

  Noticing my iLs on top of the piano, she reached for it, turning the little device and its ear pieces over in her hands. “Do you remember your audition?”

  She paused, but I didn’t respond. I just watched as she studied the thing that had kept me sane for most of my life. It was basically a glorified iPod, but it was the only thing that kept the voices out—until I learned to play my own music.

  “I don’t remember every audition I sit in on, but yours… I think I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”

  The Dohnanyi Recital Hall itself wasn’t particularly intimidating. It was the circumstances that were making my hands shake. If I blew this audition, I had no plan B. All my eggs were in this basket: Getting into the FSU College of Music.

  The judges, all professors of music at the school, were seated in the center of the auditorium when I walked into the room. I took a breath, letting the music from my iLs calm my racing mind. There were four judges. I’d thought there would only be one, maybe two. I took a breath, letting the music enfold me. It would be okay. I could do this.

  I nodded to the judges as I walked past them, then climbed the stairs to the stage and seated myself at the piano.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Day. Are you wearing headphones?” It was the judge in the center. She had frosted blonde hair, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched at the end of her nose.

  I cleared my throat, trying to find my voice. “Well, technically, yes. It’s an iLs, to help me concentrate.”

  “I don’t understand,” the judge on the end piped up. “What are you listening to? Is it just white noise?”

  “No. It’s Beethoven.”

  “It’s music. Music like what you’re planning to play?” They exchanged looks while an uncomfortable pause settled over the auditorium.

  The blonde woman appeared sympathetic, but I didn't need sympathy. I needed understanding. “I’m sorry, Ms. Day, but you can’t listen to music during your audition. How are we to know you’re not listening to the piece you plan to play? It could be construed as cheating. Please give me the device before you start your audition.”

  I couldn’t move for a heartbeat. They were making me relinquish my lifeline. My dreams were slipping through my fingers, and I was powerless to stop it from happening.

  “Ms. Day?”

  Nodding sharply, I stood to walk toward her. I turned the iLs off and removed the earpieces. Just like that, I was bombarded by their thoughts.

  It looks like an iPod. Did she really think she was going to get away with cheating? I wasn’t sure whose thought it was. It was a man’s voice, but there were three men, all of them staring me down.

  “If you check my file, it should explain about the device. I wasn’t trying to cheat, I promise.”

  The woman looked at me with a kindness in her eyes. “I’m sure you weren’t. We just have to make sure everyone adheres to the same rules. You understand, right? It’s important to be fair.”

  Not really, I thought. It wasn’t fair—I was quite certain none of the other prospective students were mind readers like me. “Sure,” I said out loud.

  While I walked back to the piano, they were all thinking different things.

  How much longer? My back hurts.

  This one’s going to be a waste of time.

  She’s chosen some difficult pieces. Let’s see how she does. The woman was the only one whose thoughts I could conclusively identify.

  This should be interesting.

  Sitting down at the piano, I stared at the keys while their voices filled my head. I took a breath, trying to find the music, but their thoughts were so loud. Panic started to rise at the back of my throat.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” one of the male judges said, and sat back in his chair, clearly unimpressed. By the sound of his voice, he was also the one who was convinced I was trying to cheat.

  I laid my hands on the keys. Just play. The music will come, I thought.

  What a joke, that same male judge thought. To shake his thoughts from my head, I slammed the first notes of a Bach three-part invention a bit too loud. Not a great start, but at least it was a start.

  The notes came slow at first, but soon, music filled the room until I couldn’t hear their judgments anymore. I didn’t stop between my pieces, for fear their thoughts would overpower me. Seamlessly, Mozart’s Fantasia in D-minor flowed forth until I was gloriously lost in it. The sadness, the darkness, the happy triplets all carried me away. Finally, it was time for my last piece. I didn’t even pause. I added a transitional measure between the two—a flourish, really—and began playing Brahms’ A German Requiem.

  Before I was ready, the last notes were hanging in the auditorium. The silence that followed was nearly as crushing as the professors’ thoughts had been before I started. I stared down at the keys, missing them already.

  After a moment, I stood, thanked my audience, wordlessly collected my iLs, and walked out of the auditorium, not hearing a single peep from the judge
s’ mouths or minds the entire time.

  “I didn’t really think you were cheating,” Professor Peterson said, propelling me out of my thoughts and back into the practice room.

  “No. I know.”

  “It was a remarkable audition. Frankly, I assumed you’d be a performance major. I’m not ashamed to tell you, I was a little disappointed when you opted for Music Therapy.”

  “Yes, well. Performance is great. I love it—don’t get me wrong. But therapy… well, that’s what got me where I am today. It’s something I’d like to be able to do for others. To let them know their demons can be silenced just like mine were.”

  The professor handed the iLs to me and smiled. “I can’t help but wonder how the audition would have gone if we’d let you stay inside your comfort zone.”

  “Maybe better, maybe worse. It’s hard to say.” I’d never been without my iLs in a public place again, at least not on purpose. Although I was too afraid to try it again, that experience had proven to me that I could control the voices myself. If only just the one time.

  “Maybe that’s what you need to do with your thesis and defense. Step outside your comfort zone?” She shrugged and stood to leave. “Just a thought. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. You usually are.”

  “Thank you, Professor.” She always astounded me. Nine times out of ten, she said exactly what she was thinking, and it was always something positive or kind. I didn’t know many people as genuine as her.

  She smiled. I hope that helps calm her jitters, she thought as she left me alone with Ravel’s piece.

  2.

  In the end, I decided to pack up and go home. Gaspard wasn’t helping, so maybe the solitude of my little apartment would do the trick. It wasn’t far from campus, and I usually walked. That day was no different.

  April was my favorite time of year in northern Florida. The air wasn’t cloying yet, and there was usually a cool breeze. A last bit of lovely before the oppression of summer settled in to stay.

  My apartment wasn’t in the best neighborhood, but it wasn’t in the worst one either. I couldn’t hear other people’s thoughts through the thick cinderblock walls that were filled with iron rods and cement. Silence in my home was an absolute necessity, and it had taken a while for me to find an available apartment in a well-insulated, older building.

  My neighbors were all poor like me, either fellow students or deadbeats who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—find work. The lack of income among them kept drugs away, and that was fine by me. I didn’t need that kind of nonsense anywhere near my life.

  In the six years I’d been in the apartment, I hadn’t had many visitors, which was the way I preferred it. The only family I had was my aunt, and despite the fact that she’d raised me, we weren’t close. I had always been more of a burden than a blessing to her, and she never let me forget it. Needless to say, she didn’t come over.

  My best friend Maddie was my only regular visitor. She and I had lived in the same neighborhood when we were kids, and she’d quickly become my favorite person. She’d helped me move in and decorate, making my one-bedroom unit look almost homey. Six hundred square feet didn’t go far, but it was all I needed.

  I came in, tossed my keys in the bowl on the coffee table, put my backpack down next to it, removed my iLs, and added it to the pile. Crossing the small space in about eight steps to the refrigerator, I got myself some water and settled on the couch. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sank into the past-its-prime, lime green, hand-me-down couch, and reveled in the silence of my sanctuary. No one thinking about their to-do list. No one wondering if they’d left the back door unlocked. No one worried about tomorrow’s meeting. Just me and my own problems.

  For a few moments, I leaned my head back and focused only on my breathing, letting my thesis sit in my backpack next to the coffee table. But before long, it was calling out to me. Nagging me, really. Reminding me that it had to be finished in a matter of days.

  “By this time next week, I’ll be free of you,” I said as I pulled it out, along with my computer and a few printed case studies I was referencing. I curled up on the couch, pillow on my lap, thesis on top, and pen in hand. All I needed to do was start marking it up. But I couldn’t. The focus just wouldn’t come.

  I kept circling around to what Professor Peterson had said about this stage of my life being trivial. And she was right. I had funneled so much energy into getting over this hurdle. But the next one was even more important: Finding a job. I had a few leads, but nothing solid yet. Graduation was still two weeks away, and I had enough grant money to pay for my apartment through the end of the summer, which felt like a lifetime away.

  I have time, right? I looked up at the clock and saw forty-five minutes had passed already. Feeling a little hungry, I decided to take my work down to the café on the corner and get a salad for dinner. Perhaps it was another excuse to procrastinate, but I promised myself I would buckle down once I was fed.

  Who could do anything worthwhile on an empty stomach? I don’t think the slaves in Egypt were very well fed when they built the pyramids. I grabbed my bag, keys, and iLs, squashing my own personal Jiminy Cricket as I stepped out into the beautiful spring evening.

  I had almost reached the café when a shiver ran through me, forcing me to fold my arms over my chest. It wasn’t cold out, so I scanned the area for the source—perhaps a fan in a storefront or air conditioning gusting out of an open door. Suddenly, I realized what was wrong… it felt like someone was watching me. Goose bumps climbed up my arms and made the hair on my neck stand on end. I quickly reached into my purse and turned off my iLs, taking a moment to look all around me, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everyone was too absorbed in their own thoughts to notice me, let alone watch me.

  Just as I was taking a breath to steady my nerves, a shadow moved in the alley right next to the café. I jumped, but it turned out to be a cat that came out and rubbed up against my leg. I shook my head and mentally chided myself for getting so keyed up over nothing.

  The café wasn’t busy, so I grabbed a small salad and settled in at a little wrought iron table for two on the patio outside, still feeling a little uneasy. It backed up to Carter-Howell-Strong Park, where you could watch people walking or playing with their dogs. It was one of my favorite places in town to sit and relax.

  But relaxation wasn’t on today’s agenda. Taking a bite of my salad, I dove into my thesis as my iLs played a soft concerto to help me focus.

  I was roughly three pages in when someone interrupted me. “You’re concentrating awfully hard, so that must be interesting. Who’s it by?”

  I jumped. “Um… it’s actually my thesis. It’s due next week.”

  He took the liberty of sitting down across from me. With blond hair, blue eyes, and smooth, tan skin, he was very attractive at first glance.

  I decided against removing my iLs. Maybe I’ll give this one a fair shot, I thought. I’d learned long ago that to know a man’s thoughts was not to love him.

  Maybe this would be fun.

  3.

  I called Maddie as soon as I got home that night. She picked up on the first ring, just like always.

  “Hey! I was just thinking about you!” My friend’s bubbly voice was always a little loud, and I turned the volume down on my phone a few clicks before answering her.

  “Guess who has a date Saturday night?”

  “Saturday night? Right before your thesis is due? This must be good! Do tell.”

  “I met Ken at the café while I was working on my paper, actually. He came over and introduced himself.”

  “I see. And what makes you think he’s any different from the string of roadkill you’ve left in your tracks over the last few years?” She always knew how to cut to the quick. “I mean, the last guy was to-die-for gorgeous, but dumb as a doornail. The guy before that was too selfish—your words, not mine. And let’s not forget the old sleazeball…” She trailed off, forgetting his name.

  “Hank.”

 
“No.” She laughed. “I forgot about him. Which one was he again?”

  “Funny guy, but he only laughed at his own jokes.”

  “Oh yeah. He was a jerk.” She paused, reflecting for a moment. “Vinny! That’s who I’m thinking of.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Oh yeah. He was awful.”

  Silence reigned for a few heartbeats while we paid our disrespects to my many past dates. “So, I ask you again,” she said, “what makes this guy special?”

  “Nothing, actually. I have a sinking feeling I will regret this, but he’s good looking and I could use a night out.”

  “I’ll remind you of that sentiment if you call me on Saturday night to tell me he’s a loser.”

  “Hey, I’m not that bad.”

  “Yes, you are. If your Spidey senses start tingling, you’re out of there faster than you can say bring the check.”

  I chuckled. Maddie didn’t know I could read minds. Honestly, I didn’t think she believed in that sort of thing, or maybe the possibility had simply never occurred to her. She did believe I had an uncanny intuition about people, particularly for pointing out scumbag boyfriends. I’d done it to more than a few unworthy guys she’d brought home.

  “Would it kill you to date a guy more than once? Maybe overlook the greenery in his teeth to find out a little more about him on a second date?”

  Would it kill me? No, probably not. Most guys were harmless at heart. Crude? Yes. Malicious? Sometimes. Violent? No. Or at least not in my experience.

  “What if my Spidey sense tells me he’s a serial killer?”

  “Was your Spidey sense going off at the café?” Thankfully, she answered her own question before I had to come up with an explanation for why I didn’t know his true intentions. “No, I suppose it wasn’t. Otherwise, you never would’ve agreed to the date, right?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So, tell me what you’re going to wear.”

  “Oh jeez, Maddie. Come on. Do I have to wear something special?”