Orchestra of the Damned

Musical dreams can be deadly.

“The Orchestra of the Damned. That's what we called them. I say 'them', but to be honest with you I have no idea as to what those...things...even were. From afar they looked human, but whenever you got close...they sure as s**t weren't. Anyhow, you want to know about it all. I suppose you already know what it all was, right? It was a dream. A dream about a thousand-odd people would experience at once. It didn't make the news or pass into common knowledge...people were too damn scared to even mention it to their friends or loved ones. I know I was. So instead, we shared it all online, on private blogs or paranormal forums and whatnot. Eventually, common elements started to appear, enough for some to realise that others had had the same dream. One by one, we found each other until the final number of afflicted was 983. 983 people who had the same recurring dream for a straight week, before it stopped as sudden as it started. But let me tell you, that would be the least odd thing about it all.”

“Every night of that week was different. The moment you fell asleep, which you invariably did, despite wanting to or not, it felt like you were falling. And you fell and fell, a white light above you which got smaller and smaller as you fell, a red one below that would get bigger and bigger. What usually happens when you fall in a dream, your body jerks awake. Something about the brain reacting to danger, I think. But with this, you didn't wake up or spasm. Everything around you would start flashing, black and red, black and red, until you felt your head was about to explode. You couldn't close your eyes, you had to bear it. Just when you felt you could take no more, it stopped and everything faded to black again. You weren't falling any more, it felt like you were sitting in a chair, with your wrists bound. Slowly, everything would light up. First the stage, then the hall around you, bathed in this deep orange-red light. Once it was lit, you could see around you a sea of heads, wriggling and turning to see what was going on. They were all sat, like you were. Everyone was in a type of concert hall or auditorium, strapped down to a seat, facing the stage.”

“This was the only thing that would repeat itself every day. The falling, the flashes of light, the seats and the heads of other people around you, craning and twisting around to get a better look at the surroundings. Everything else was different. The hall, the stage, even the colours lighting everything. And especially the Orchestra. The first night was, in retrospect, the easiest to handle. After you fell in the seat, you waited for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, you'd see them, shuffling out from behind the curtains and the sides, taking their seats in the middle of the stage and tuning up. One night I counted thirty, the next I counted fifty, the next only ten, and so on. But they were always awful to look at. They were huge, two-three metre figures, hooded and cloaked in black and red robes, wielding instruments as tall and spindly as themselves. Those things always looked like they'd break at the first note played. But they never f*****g did. They looked like violins and cellos and trumpets and so on, but they...I dunno, they had this creaky gray look, like they were made of compressed ash or burnt wood. And the sounds...God. God those f*****g sounds. Imagine a piece of chalk screeching across a board for hours. Those were the violins. Or what looked like violins. The cellos sounded like bones crunching under the skin, but slowly. As if a skull was under a power press and you recorded every little sound that made. The trumpets were...well, that's the thing. Each 'section' of this thing had a different impact on you. The strings made disgusting sounds. The wind and brass stuff would hurt you, directly. The trumpets felt like someone sticking their fingers in an open wound and tearing it open, millimetre by millimetre. Trombones were like something pressing real hard against your diaphragm, driving all the air out of you. Oboes and clarinets were like a fork stabbing you in the ear, as if trying to wedge itself inside your head. Drums...hoo boy. Drums were like all your muscles and bones aching at once. With each beat.”

“Every night a different thing. But the fucked thing was that along with all this pain and disgust, you could actually hear their music being played. Monstrous and disgusting versions of Wagner or Bach or Holst, made from screams of pain and anguish and played on concert loudspeakers inches away from your ears, while at the same time feeling those goddamn things playing and hurting you with every note. You see why it's called as it is. And it would progressively get worse as the night went on. I suppose around the time dawn came around, everything would intensify. The sounds, the pain, the lights...Even those things playing you could see them getting excited. They'd stand up and face us directly. They'd relish playing slowly, grinning with whatever they called those horrid excuses for mouths at us. But most of all they loved to play fast and rough. They'd howl and laugh-I say laugh, I mean screech in pleasure-seeing us contort and cringe with every note struck...My wife told me I was going into seizures every night around 5-6 AM. I'm epileptic, I had an excuse. Lying to her was...well. I wish I didn't have to, but...at the time, I'd have given anything to not recall the night.”

“Eventually, it stopped. It started a Sunday night, it ended the next Sunday night. I still have no damn clue what it was or why it was, but...No, I don't know. Everyone I met online who had those same dreams, their stories are similar. Some perceived it all differently...but generally, this is how it all went. And the thing is, we were actually 1000 people, at the start. Don't ask me how I know that, I just do. Now there's 983. Seventeen died in the course of the week. Two were Leukaemia patients. Kids. Three were elderly, they died on the same night. The night when one of those things jumped off the stage and hit them with its violin. One was a climber. I suppose he dreamed himself to death. His tent apparently rolled off a cliff and they found it at the bottom of a canyon, with him inside. Violent convulsions and slippery rocks aren't the best conditions. The rest I don't know about. Yet. I dream about them, and their deaths. I don't know when, but I do. Or well, I think I do.”