Short Horror Stories

Jazz Death 2: A son of jazz and a child of madness

Months went by, Brando had found himself stuck in a new routine in a new location. The jazz music never truly ended, not even during the day. When he thought he was free from it, he would hear a tune regardless of its distance. He was eventually fed up and interrogated the lady at the lobby about it.

"What is up with the music? Why do you people play this jazz music all the time? It doesn't make any sense to me. I've never lived somewhere like this before in my thirty years of living." His once warm and inviting voice withered away with each passing day, like a candle on a windowsill. His eyes didn't hold a green shiny life to them no longer, but eyes that were cold and guarded. His tone held a new sense of sternness.

"You've been here for months and you never bothered to ask on the first day of moving here. How come?" Her brown eyes gleamed with curiosity at him. She wasn't wondering why he asked, she was wondering why he didn't ask sooner as though he were the crazy one.

"That doesn't matter. I must know, why? For all that is holy, why have you city people played jazz every single night? Are you people in a cult or just have this weird obsession for music?" He asked, his jaw tightening and his brows tense. The soft and friendly face people once knew Brando for was completely gone. To the city people, they look at him and back away thinking he was one of those people to lash out at any moment.

She sighs softly, like the explanation she were about to give him was going to be a long one. "It's more like a superstition. In the early 1900's, there was a man. There's different names, I like to call him the boogeyman. He was the one to start this whole thing. On the night of March 15th, he told newspapers that he would spare any soul playing jazz bands. So of course, every terrified person here played their jazz nice and loud for this man. The next morning, not a soul was...well, you know." She shifted her body weight to one side like she was holding something incredibly heavy, maybe it was the weight of the story.

"You guys are still afraid of something that happened decades ago? You're kidding, right?" Brando's tone came off more gruff and harsh. He really didn't care for such childish horror stories.

"Look, it's not that uncommon and this man was never caught. Maybe he didn't hurt anyone that night, but he certainly had hurt others in the past before that; six to be exact, not much but certainly enough. My granny, she coined him as the Jazz Death." She scoffed to herself, "If I'm honest, at this rate I think I'll die from jazz and not him."

A short yet cold laugh escaped from his mouth before he spoke. "Yeah, that makes two of us." He leaned his elbow against the counter with the rest of his body weight.

"You know, that night; my granny was living here. She recalled how many houses were having parties with jazz music so loud it would cause you loss of hearing. She sat by her window all night listening to jazz music herself and she swears that she had seen the silhouette of the man, walking through the alleyways with an axe in hand." She pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Yet, he never used it that night."

Brando stood upright now, his thoughts racing a mile a minute at the story he just received. He was never told such a story, especially one as heavy as this one was. He nodded firmly to the lady.

"Well...that's a lot to take in. Thanks for the story, lady." He awkwardly responds, not sure of what else to reply with.

"Sophia Moretti. My name is Sophia, Brando. Don't forget that." Sophia's voice was firm, letting him know that she didn't want to just be known as lady, as she was someone much more important than that.

"My apologies, Moretti. So, I take it I can't ask for the people to take it down a notch tonight on the music?" He asks with a slight smile but she didn't return the same kindness.

"No, you can't. You knew the rules the day you moved into here." She replied, swiping her dark curly hair away from her forehead with her forearm, revealing to Brando a scar. He eyed it curiously and glanced away once she noticed his eyes watching her. She pulled down her sleeve to cover it, despite it being eighty nine degrees that evening.

"Fair enough, have a nice night." He says with a click of his tongue, sauntering down the halls and back to the lift.

Like clockwork, Brando heard a haunting jazz band play. It was at this point, he couldn't decipher it from his dreams or real life. He sat up in his bed and glanced over to his window where dim neon lights were lit from across the way and all he could make out was his own face staring right back at him. His eyes decorated with dark bags, his dark olive complexion paler than it should've been. The man he looked back at was himself, yet he had no idea who this man was anymore. The final note played and a new one started up, not leaving a long enough gap of silence for Brando to be relieved.

Another month came and went, Brando set out to find a therapist. Things weren't seemingly pleasant as his therapist was quite concerned for Brando and his thoughts.

"You think you're going insane? How so?" She questioned him with a gentle voice.

"The jazz music plays all of the time, it surrounds me. It's all I ever think of and I don't know if I despise it anymore or love it." Brando confessed, keeping his fingers intertwined with each other. She glances down to her notes and shoots her eyes over to her phone momentarily.

"Brando, do you mind telling me your full name and birthdate again?"

"My name? Birthdate? Um...yeah, Brando Michael Luis. My birthdate is October twenty seventh, 1990."

She nods quietly. "Okay, thank you though I'm afraid that's all the time I have for you today. I'll see you Friday, yes?" Quietly, Brando nodded without a word and left the office.

Late Thursday night, Brando walked into the alleyways of the city. An umbrella loosely gripped in his hand while he walked through the gloomy night. The skies dark like the attire Brando wore. Jazz blared from behind the brick walls in the buildings and it was now gentle to his ears. He walked his body up and down the alleys for hours, feeling himself lost within the tune. However before he could continue onwards, a couple screamed at the sight of him. It wasn't too much later that Brando would find himself locked away in a silent room with four white walls. It also wasn't too later after that, Sophia Moretti paid him a visit.

"Brando Luis?" She called his name out, standing across from him. He was present, but his mind was somewhere gone.

"Hm...do you hear that jazz? It's still there." He spoke softly.

"Brando, there's no music. Never mind that..." She paused before speaking once more. "Brando, do you realize that you were holding an axe tonight in the alleyways?"

"Hm, no. Couldn't be." He replied.

She shook her head, feeling hopeless about speaking to Brando anymore. She stood up, her hand reaching for the door and taking one last glance at him. "It would come to no surprise if you turned out to be related to the jazz death...I suppose we may never know." Once fully gone, Brando began speaking to himself.

"Do you hear it? The jazz." He muttered to himself for the last time before having many nights listening to it in his head. He prayed every night, prayed to be deaf.