Unfinished Jazz Ghost Story

>Your name is Anon, and you finally managed to score a job.
>You’ve lived in New Hampshire for about a month now, mostly getting by on graduation gifts and generous donations from your parents.
>Still, as soon as you got here, you started looking for something longterm.
>Last week, you finally found something worthwhile.
>It was in the classified ads in the paper, of all places.
>’Caretaker Wanted -  Dover Jazz Club, 10 PM-6 AM’
>It initially sounded kinda sketchy, but the payroll…
>You were more of a night-owl anyway.

>You thought you had the wrong place when you arrived that night.
>The building looked like it had seen better days.
>The marquee was empty, and the inside looked dark.
>You turned around to check your GPS, when another car pulls up.
>Out steps an older, black gentleman.
>Suit and tie minus the jacket, with suspenders pulled over his shoulders.
>The beginnings of a white beard across his round face.
>”You’re Anon?” he asks, stepping over to you.
>You nod.
“Yes. And you’re Cecil?”
>”In the flesh.”
>He chuckles softly as you shake hands.
“Thanks again for hiring me.”
>”Don’t mention it, son. Lord knows this ol’ place needs all the care she can get.”
>He produces a set of keys and unlocks the front door.
>You follow him inside, trying your best to see in the darkness.
>Luckily, Cecil flips a switch and the whole room lights up.
>The area’s littered with tables and chairs, like a huge dining room.
>There’s a stage in the back, a baby-grand piano and microphone stand as well.
>And naturally, the whole place is covered with dust.
>You can even make out a few cobwebs.
“Does anyone ever use this place anymore?”
>”Only for private parties. 30 years ago, though? It was the place to be. Jazz music up and down the street.”
>Cecil pauses, as if reminiscing.
>He then looks in your direction.
>”Now, your job is to walk around every hour or so, and make sure everything’s working right. Lights, plumbing, et cetera. You see anything that needs fixing, you write it down on this paper here.”
>He hands you a clipboard with a pen, a sheet of lined paper clipped to the wood.
>”In the morning, I’ll come by and collect it to see what warrants repairs. Got that?”
>You nod.
“Yeah, sounds easy enough.”
>Cecil smiles.
>”Sounds like I found the right guy for the job, then.”
>You can’t help but smile back.
>Something about him’s just charming.
>”Well, it’s nearly past my bedtime. I’ll see you in the morning, Anon.”
>He turns to leave, before stopping and turning back.
>”Oh, and one more thing. You let me know if you…hear anything strange in the night, alright?”
“What do you mean?”
>”Well, lotta folks say they heard saxophone music in the middle of the night, when the place is closed. Call it the ‘Jazz Ghost.’”
>You’d think he would’ve mentioned that in the ad.
>Then again, you probably wouldn’t have answered if the ad said ‘Haunted Dover Jazz Club.’
“Do…you believe it?”
>Cecil just shrugs.
>”Wouldn’t call myself a spiritual man, but…s’pose I can’t say for sure. You have a good night, now.”
>Cecil offers you one last smile before heading out the door.

>It’s finally midnight.
>You’ve spent most of the time wandering around, checking various things, and using your phone.
>You haven’t seen or heard anything unusual.
>The closest you came to that was an out of place saxophone.
>Out of place as in, unlike the room it was in, it was nearly spotless.
>No dust, nothing; completely untouched.
>Odd, but not enough to weird you out.
>Still, it was kind of boring here.
>If you knew any songs on piano, you’d play the one on stage, but you might get noise complaints.
>Or someone’ll label you as the ‘Shitty Piano Ghost.’
>Speaking of shitty.
>You’ve been in the bathroom for about ten minutes.
>It kinda smells, but hey, it’s a bathroom.
>Nothing that really needs to be fixed.
>Could be a little cleaner, but nothing serious.
>You’re scrolling through the threads, when you begin to hear something.
>Is that…a saxophone?
>You’re reminded of Cecil’s story.
>There couldn’t actually be a ghost, could there?
>Maybe it was a set-up for a prank.
>Like, there was a tape of someone playing a saxophone set to play at a certain time.
>Yeah, that had to be it.
>Still, there’s the tiniest bit of doubt in your mind.
>You decide to check it out, just to be safe.
>Pushing the bathroom door open into the main room, you don’t immediately see anything out of the ordinary.
>The saxophone definitely gets louder, though.
>Whoever’s playing is going at it hard.
>But, no one’s playing it, it’s a tape!
>It has to be!
>It’s a sound theory, for sure.
>There’s only one problem.
>The music’s not coming from a tape.
>It’s coming from a saxophone.
>Specifically, the one floating above the stage.

>You’re completely frozen.
>The saxophone doesn’t stop, as if whatever’s playing it doesn’t notice you.
>If something IS playing it, that is.
>For all you know, it could be a possessed saxophone.
>Not a tape, though.
>That much is obvious.
>You’re beginning to think this job isn’t really worth it.
>You’re probably better off working retail at Best Buy or something.
>You’re just gonna head out and give Cecil a call in the morning.
>You quietly turn to leave…
>And end up walking knee-first into a table.
“FUCK!”
>The saxophone stops.
>You quickly turn to face it for…whatever reason.
>No point in escaping, you guess; it already knows you’re here.
>You can only stare in horror as the sax floats closer and closer to you.
>You mentally brace yourself for whatever happens next.
>You close your eyes…
>”You alright there, Daddy-o?”

>You open your eyes.
>The sax is still floating in front of you, having apparently just spoke.
>The voice sounded off, like it was coming from an old black and white movie.
>Kinda ghostly, too.
>Well, it was a disembodied voice, so of course it sounded ghostly.
>”Hey, Jack! I’m talkin’ to you!”
>You snap back to reality once you realize it’s addressing you.
“I-I’m alright…I guess…”
>You step a little ways away from the sax.
>The voice sounds female, along with the distortion.
>Black, too.
>Not that that really matters, you suppose.
>”You gotta watch where you step in a place like this. When this place gets jumpin’, it’s hard to walk around.”
“…But, there’s no one here.”
>The sax just floats there, the voice gone silent.
>”…Well, yeah, not now. Just you, me, and my horn.”
>The sax fidgets a bit, as if she’s gesturing to it.
>You still can’t see a form or anything.
>You stare in a stupor.
“I, uh…can’t see you, by the way.”
>”Oh! Sorry ‘bout that, baby, sometimes I forget I’m not all here. I’ll fix that right quick!”
>Next thing you know, she’s faded into sight.
>She’s completely black.
>No skin or hair definitions, just black.
>She does have what appears to be hair, though, mostly concealed under a trilby.
>Dark sunglasses adorn her face, and she’s dressed in what looks like some sort of suit with a vest and pin-striped skirt.
>What really catches you off guard are her curves.
>Yeah, for a ghost with no visible feet, she certainly is…thick.
>You try not to stare.
>”This work for you?”
“Y-yeah…so, you’re the ‘Jazz Ghost?’
>She giggles softly.
>”Is that what they’re callin’ me? I think I prefer Billie…”
>She flips upside down, her clothing, glasses, and sax somehow defying gravity, and comes face to face with you.
>”What do they call you, Jack?”
“Anon…I’m actually the new caretaker. Sorry if I interrupted your…performance.”
>She seemed like she was really into it, until you went and broke your knee on the table.
>”You kiddin’?! I’d love an audience!”
>She flips right side up again, smiling big.
>”Been blowin’ by myself all these years, I could use a change of pace!”
>Well, it’s good she’s not angry at your uninvited appearance.
“Cool…I guess I wouldn’t mind being treated to some blowing.”
>…
>Wait, no.
>Fuck.
>A hint of a blush can be seen peeking out from under her shades.
>You car your throat to break the awkward silence.
“So, music?”
>She shakes herself back to reality.
>”Yeah, yeah! Hope you’re ready for some hot licks!”
>She floats on over to the stage, sax in hand.
>You take a seat at one of the tables, eager to hear her play.
>…Wait.
>’Hot licks.’
>Now you’re blushing.

>It’s nearly 3 AM.
>You and Billie have been chatting the night away.
>She’s actually really cool, way cooler than any of the other women you’ve met.
>She seems to like you, too.
>You’ve actually made her laugh a couple times, which is a first.
>”So, what is it you do on that ‘website’ thing?”
“We post pictures of monster girls and talk about how much we want to fuck them.”
>Yeah, you’re past the whole awkward sex joke thing.
>Billie launches into a fit of giggles.
>”For real? That’s pathetic!”
“Hey, it’s a hobby. Besides, it could be a lot worse. Sometimes, there’s an asshole that floods the thread with pictures no one wants to see. I may be pathetic, but at least I’m not that guy.”
>Her giggling is reduced to snickers.
>”Still, that’s kinda lame. These guys have a favorite chick?”
“Sort of. It’s varied, but they mostly talk about this ghost-
>”Ghost!?”
>Billie sits up straight.
>You can make out the same blush from before.
>”Heh…that ain’t right. I don’t know if you can even…well, do that with a ghost.”
>You can’t help but wonder…
“Have…have you ever…”
>You rub the back of your head, already feeling awkward for bringing it up.
>Billie’s blushing even more now.
>”I mean…never got a chance to try, I s’pose. Like I said, you’re the first soul to come here in a long while…”
“Oh, yeah…”
>Well, gee, what the fuck are you going to ask next?
>’Maybe we should have sex just to see if it works!’
>Yeah, that’ll go over well.
“Uh, sorry…forget I mention-“
>”What about you?”
“W-what?”
>”What about you, Anon? You ever get funky in the bedroom?”
>You…don’t know how to answer that.
“I mean, I’ve had a few girlfriends in the past, but…never really went that far.”
>She nods.
>”They weren’t good to you, were they?”
“I mean…I dunno, it was years ago! I barely even remember their names. What about you? You ever have any flings?”
>She’s silent.
“…Billie?”
>She sighs.
>”It doesn’t matter, now. He’s long gone…”
>Great, now you’re BOTH depressed.
>You sigh.
>…
>Suddenly, you hear a sad sax solo…
>You look up.
>She’s seriously playing again?
“What are you doing?”
>She stops and looks at you.
>”Oh, whenever I’m feeling blue, I just blow my horn. It helps a little.”
>She goes back to playing.
>You sit back and listen.
>You think back to your life before New Hampshire.
>High school was Hell, you only had a few friends.
>Your old job wasn’t any better.
>If anything, moving here was a blessing.
>Despite that, it feels…comforting to reflect on the past.
>It’s what defines you in the present, and if you can manage to recognize that, you have an advantage over a lot of people.
>And if you recognize the consequences of your past decisions…
>You’re more equipped to make better ones in the future.
>You smile.
>Billie was right, music did help.