#0140111

I am deaf, have been since I was young, and had it not been for the fact that I couldn’t hear, I would likely be dead and not currently writing down my tale of survival.

Let me just say first that it’s not bad, being completely deaf, but there are some things you miss out on when you can’t hear. People have told me the roar of the ocean is an awe-inspiring thing - but for me, it’s nothing. But still, I can live just fine without sound. I can read lips and use ASL, and I’m certainly not illiterate.

The town I live in is very nice - we are, or, were, a tightly knit community. Luckily for me, many people had picked up some ASL out of kindness for me, a gesture I will never forget, and carry with me in memory of all those innocent lives.

I’m getting sentimental. Sorry. Let me continue my sad tale.

Our town hall has two levels, the main floor and an upper one, which is more of a balcony. It looks over the stage in the hall, granting anyone up there a good view of the performances below. The local theatre group uses it for sound and lighting sometimes, but it goes unused largely. The only other person that goes up there is me: as a janitor, I have to regularly head up into the balcony to dust and sweep. Sometimes I like to sit up there and watch people dance below, unseen by everyone under me. It’s kind of fun being an unknown spectator.

What would’ve happened if I hadn’t decided to sit up there that night? Would it have lessened the knowledge of what I saw?

I don’t know.

It was late that evening, and I knew that there was going to be a performance later tonight. The band playing was called “Hamelin” - I’d never heard of it until now, and judging from the others, no one really knew them as well. But it’d been a dreary month and the mayor had invited this strange group to come and play, maybe liven things up. Standard stuff, yes?

My week was going quite nicely and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to treat myself to a look at this “Hamelin” band. I was very curious as to who they were. Maybe I couldn’t hear their music, but I could certainly watch them perform. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this situation at all.

There shouldn’t have been.

Night came, and the lower floor filled with people chatting and awaiting the band that had yet to turn up. I’d taken my usual spot up in the balcony, leaning over the railing eagerly. I found it kind of strange that the band hadn’t turned up yet - it’d been, what, over half an hour at that point? Usually bands showed up well before the audience did. Maybe I should’ve given more thought to this strange occurrence, but I kept trying to rationalize it, and so I didn’t think it was suspicious at all.

Then finally, someone showed up.

As I watched, a tall lean man strode into the hall. The crowd fell silent and parted to let him through. He got on stage and put down a guitar case he’d been carrying, unlocking it and pulling out a shiny looking instrument. I figured he was part of the band.

It was then I noticed he was the only member of the band that had shown up. Again, I didn’t think it was suspicious. Maybe the other members were late as well, I thought. Or maybe “Hamelin” wasn’t a band, but rather, a stage name. Clearly there were good reasons for him being the only performer.

The man situated himself on a stool and pulled a microphone close to him, adjusting the guitar on his knee. He had long, heavily textured hair, kind of like mine, with a short-sleeved dress shirt coloured in red and yellow stripes. His face was long and tired, his eyes haunted and dark.

Looking at his shirt, thinking of the band name, I was suddenly reminded of “The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” Had you ever heard that poem? In that poem, the Pied Piper plays a pipe that enchants the horde of rats infesting the town of Hamelin. Through his playing he drives the horde into the nearby river, to which they all promptly drown. His music brings the rats death.

I thought that reference was just a coincidence. It couldn’t have meant anything. I wasn’t shivering at all.

He was speaking, the musician, his mouth moving, probably thanking the crowd for their time. There were still people whispering to one another in the audience. Everybody was just staring rapt at this strange, strange pied-clad man.

Then the man hefted his guitar, picked a note, and began to play. Everything was normal, his lips were still, people were gently swaying to the tune - standard. Normal. Perfectly normal.

Until he began to sing.

God knows how lucky I was to be deaf in that moment, because as soon as the man started singing, everyone went mad.

It was pandemonium like you couldn’t imagine it. Everyone immediately turned to the person next to them and lunged at them, their jaws snapping and hands reaching to rip at skin and shred at flesh. Some people grabbed weapons - one woman grabbed a bottle, another took his fork - while others simply threw themselves upon another, nails digging into pink, writhing bodies. People kicked and howled and broke. Blood flew everywhere.

All the while, that man sang. He would throw his head back wildly, leaning forwards and backward with an erratic rhythm. His mouth opened and closed. His teeth - they kept showing, flashing like fangs and knives in the light. His lips curled back in a raptured snarl. His eyes fluttered as if drunk in some horrid version of ecstasy.

He sang. And by God, did he sing.

A man tore another’s ear off with a flick of his head. A woman thrust her hand into someone’s eye. Brothers turned against sisters and mothers slaughtered their sons.

I should’ve run. I should’ve known that this would happen. I should’ve cried. But I just watched in abject horror as the community I knew and loved - one that had given and cared like humans - indulged in violent carnage like slavering animals.

It kept going. Everyone wouldn’t stop. The man kept singing. He wouldn’t stop singing. I couldn’t do anything.

Finally, the last person in the audience stood standing, a woman by the name of Agnes Tucker. She stood alive, bloodied and bruised, panting at the man on stage as he crooned his deadly melody. And then she grabbed her throat and violently tore it out. Her legs, at last, gave away, and the crowd lay dead amidst blood and bone.

The musician stopped singing. Everything was very still.

Then the man looked up, and met my eyes with a smile. He said something, and in that moment I had never read anyone’s lips with more clarity than his.

“Encore?” He said.

Our town hasn’t been the same after that. The police ruled the event as a drunken brawl and didn’t blame me for the massacre. The few people that hadn’t gone to the hall held a massive memorial, which I made sure to attend.

Nobody in the town talks anymore. We aren’t the close community we once were. Neighbours don’t get together and happily chat about the latest events. The town hall is abandoned and unvisited by anyone at all. Whatever people you do encounter on the streets will glare at you, as if your survival is an insult to that bloody carnage. Believe me, I know; that’s how they treat me these days.

We were once a lively place. But ever since that day, the town has been very, very quiet. And somewhere out in the world that accursed man still plays his merry tune.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- Mr. Ashner did not agree to give us a follow-up statement on the matter, as he claimed there was nothing else worth mentioning. Supposedly the town has begun to recover, but after a massacre of that size… I don’t have high hopes for them, to be honest.

- It’s notable that Hamelin is the name of the town in the tale of the Pied Piper, though that could just be a thematic coincidence. The theme of music with an almost siren-like effect on people certainly fits the story. There is even a survivor of the piper’s “attack” on the town of Hamelin who was deaf and could not hear the piper’s music.

I am dangerous. That is a fact.

To share my story when I am a threat and a menace is ironic. After all, who hears out the beasts? Who wants to? You know that their teeth are sharp. But part of me cannot stand keeping it a secret. Withholding information - it’s a burden that weighs you down, and one that can only be alleviated through sharing the truth. It isn’t a secret to you, I’m sure. You, dear Archivist, who reads this now - you will know, sooner or later, against your will. Such is our nature. Such is fate.

With that, I give you my story.

I am a musician, and have been since I was young enough to still have my mother with me. I didn’t keep her for very long, because when I turned 12, she was taken, and I got another mother in her place. That other mother didn’t make music like my true one did. Its tune was scratchy, and ragged. It didn’t like my guitar, while my real mother liked it

It killed my father when I was 16. So I killed it. And after that, I was alone, later thrust into the hands of foster care with nothing but an instrument from another time.

My new foster parents were pleasant enough. They had three other children that they were taking care of, and I got along well with them. School, however, was a different story. I got bullied a lot, called various names, beaten and bruised on certain occasions - all not very fun things. I bore it, though. The last time I took action was when I killed the other mother, and since then I hadn’t the strength or will to do it again. I let myself be pushed around. I didn’t have the energy to fight back. That, I speculate, made me a prime target.

The only solace I found was with my guitar. It was a hand-me-down, given when I was 10. The instrument helped ease the discomfort of the harassment in school at first. Soon, however, the abuse worsened. And again I ignored it, telling myself I had no business trying to resist.

I think this was when it started growing, that throbbing, beating something inside of me. There was a connection being forged against my will inside my heart. Thankfully, I graduated without any fuss, but that feeling still lingered. It was only a matter of time before it would show itself.

On the night of my 21st birthday, I wrote my first and last song.

It came to me in the middle of the night, a strike of red lightning that scorched me and kept me awake until I’d written every last word down. And when I finished, I sat there, staring at it, uncertain of its conception but certain of its purpose. I knew what this song would do. I knew what I would do.

I was going to perform at a bar tomorrow evening, some dingy little establishment few would’ve heard of. The audience milled around in the dank space, sleepy and lethargic like the place itself, and the whole scene spoke of laziness. And there I was, clutching my instrument with white knuckles, desperately aching to start playing. That inspiration from the night prior had grown to a crescendo inside of me. If I didn’t let the crimson song out soon, it would’ve surely consumed me.

Onto the stage I got, and I introduced myself, trying to temper the tension in my jaw. I held my guitar tightly and poised my fingers fatefully over the strings. Droopy eyes turned to look at me.

I strummed the first chord, and I sang that song.

Do you know what euphoria feels like? I’m sure you could attempt to draw up descriptions; I’m sure you will even say that yes, you know what it’s like. It’s unlikely you could understand what my euphoria felt like, however. Despite this, I will try my best to tell you.

It is like a pure, unbridled, madness. It is a joy you can’t resist, a song that fills your ears and swallows you whole, dragging you down into the depths of mayhem. It is motion, movement, that commands your limbs to move and begs you to dance.

And dance the audience did - they moved, oh they did. They swung at one another and howled with rage. Broken glass flew and knives went deep into vocal chords, splitting them open and spilling the song onto the floor. Bodies were broken. Bones snapped. Chaos and bloodshed reigned.

And through it all I sang.

Mind you, I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t my choice to continue singing. Being possessed by that feeling is… not something you choose. It takes you and it makes you sing.

It was a long time before I finally stopped. The experience had left me greatly winded. My throat was raw, and my eyes watered with emotion that I wasn’t sure about. I glanced up tentatively at the messy scene around me.

The human body has a lot of blood in it, didn’t you know?

Red. Red. Red. So much of it throughout the bar. And it was very quiet too. Seeing as there was no one to stop me, I left.

That is the end of my story. Since that day, I have done the same thing over and over and over and over again. They whisper my name in the back alleys. They talk of that mysterious band, Hamelin - the band that, they say, has music which is to die for. I can assure you, it is.

Perhaps you are wondering why I would willingly expose myself like this. After all, sharing my crimes puts me at risk of being arrested, and surely a beast doesn’t want that?

Well, it’s true I don’t fancy being arrested, but at the same time I felt I had to tell you. To serve something the way I do - it’s a burden, all forms of servitude are. My kind just so happens to be an extremely deep lifelong debt I can never repay.

Do I regret it? Sometimes. Sometimes I feel something heavy in my chest, a deep seated guilt telling me - rightfully, I’ll add - that I’m a monster, that the slaughter left in my wake is an act that can’t be condoned no matter the reason. Other times I enjoy it, letting myself really get lost in the music, embracing that madness. Most of the time, I try to ignore it. It doesn’t always work.

Did I choose it? In a way, maybe I did. Or circumstance was just cruel.

Regardless, now you know. Hate me, fear me, inspect me like some prized specimen - do what you wish. But whatever you do, I implore you to be aware, for it may come for you just as it did for me.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

This statement has a direct connection to Case #0140111 – the band described there, Hamelin, is the same name Damien Piper uses here. The connection between violence and music is… not one I would’ve made on my own. It’s an interesting association.

Mr. Piper makes… interesting claims, but Blair has found several consistent reports about violent brawls in establishments across the country, all of them ending with no survivors–and all of them occurring on nights where the band Hamelin is playing.