Jazz sat down at the piano. It only then dawned on him that he might have been unconscious for about fifteen minutes or more back at the road. He had arrived just in the nick of time, but there was no longer any chance for a sound check. Ed, with his guitar and mic, looked at him silently and mouthed, "What happened?" while pointing at his watch, signaling that Jazz was late.
Jazz mouthed back, "I'll explain later," and added a silent "sorry" with an apologetic expression, hoping Ed would understand. He then glanced at his other bandmates, offering them a quick, silent apology as well.
Jazz's fingers trembled as they rested on the piano's keybed, and the drummer started counting in with his sticks. Initially, Jazz struggled, not yet accustomed to playing with perfect pitch. He hit a few wrong notes here and there, but what truly amazed him was that each note registered in his mind within split seconds, like how our eyes instantly recognize colors. His bandmates occasionally glanced at him with expressions of concern, as if to say, "Focus!"
However, by the middle of the song, Jazz began to adapt to his newfound gift. As the song Spain transitioned to the piano solo, Jazz unleashed his improvisation like a seasoned jazz wizard. His bandmates' expressions shifted from concern to astonishment, their faces reflecting the unmistakable stank face — the highest compliment a musician could receive from another, signaling deep appreciation and admiration for the musical brilliance unfolding before them. The notes and chords Jazz played were unlike anything they had heard from him before. Ed, unable to contain his excitement, occasionally shouted "Whoas!" into the mic.
The night's gig flew by, culminating in a spectacular finale as they wrapped up with a splendid rendition of Cantaloupe Island, which drew enthusiastic applause from the audience.
"Dude! You absolutely killed it, man!" Ed exclaimed as he approached Jazz, extending a fist for a celebratory bump. The bassist and drummer followed suit, joining in the excitement with their own fist bumps, all sharing in the thrill of a performance well done.
"You were a beast out there, man!" Troy exclaimed, his bass still hanging from his shoulder. "What happened to you?!"
"Long story, but I'll explain later," Jazz replied, his smile beaming from ear to ear. "I just really need to go to the toilet."
* * *
As Jazz emerged from the restroom, an eerie sensation washed over him. He froze in his tracks, hearing a voice calling his name—"Jazz." It was an uncanny echo, hauntingly familiar, almost as if it were a distorted version of his own voice. A chill crept up his spine as he strained to listen, the call becoming increasingly insistent.
Intrigued and unsettled, Jazz began to follow the voice, which grew louder and more urgent with each step. He navigated the winding corridors of the hotel, the dim lights flickering overhead, casting elongated shadows that danced along the walls. The voice led him deeper into the heart of the establishment, until he found himself standing before a poorly lit stairway descending into the basement.
The air grew heavy with an unsettling silence, and a shiver of apprehension coursed through him. He scanned the area, heart racing, anxious that someone might catch him; the basement felt forbidden. After confirming that no one was watching, he took a deep breath and cautiously descended the stairs, the voice drawing him in like a moth to a flame.
As Jazz descended the stairs, the voice grew increasingly insistent, weaving through the shadows and enveloping him in a sense of urgency. Each step resonated like a heartbeat in the silence, the air thick with anticipation. The dim light flickered, revealing the damp walls, their surfaces adorned with peeling paint and shadows that seemed to pulse with life. At the bottom of the stairway, he was greeted by an expansive room cloaked in darkness. His breath caught in his throat when his eyes fell upon an old upright piano, its wood tarnished and worn, yet oddly captivating. The instrument stood majestically amid the gloom, infused with a strange, magnetic energy that beckoned him closer.
Jazz approached, drawn in by the allure. The keys, however, told a different story. Several were broken, jagged remnants jutting out like broken promises, and he noticed that the fractured keys were "C," "E," "G," and "B." His heart raced as he realized that those very notes formed a C Major seventh chord (CM7), a commonly used jazz chord.
He hesitated, a mixture of excitement and trepidation coursing through him as one last call of his name echoed in the dimly lit room. This time, he was certain it came from the old piano. The instrument seemed to beckon him, promising secrets waiting to be unlocked. Just as he stepped closer, his fingers poised to touch its weathered keys, he heard another voice shout out. It was Ed, his tone urgent and unmistakable.
"Dude! What are you doing?" exclaimed Ed, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised in disbelief. He gestured emphatically with his hands, as if trying to physically pull Jazz back from the old piano.
Jazz was startled and momentarily unresponsive as he looked back at Ed, unsure of what had transpired.
"Come on, man. This section seems to be forbidden," Ed urged, glancing nervously around the dimly lit space. He shivered slightly, his body tensing as he continued, "And this place looks creepy."
"Sorry, Ed," Jazz replied, his voice steady but his gaze lingering on the piano. "I heard someone calling me. I followed it, and I'm sure it came from this basement."
"Dude! You're starting to scare me. You're getting weirded out, man! Let's go home," Ed insisted, his expression shifting to concern as he took a step back, as if to distance himself from the unsettling atmosphere.
* * *
As the clock neared ten o'clock, the night had settled into a calm silence, with only the soft sounds of the street vendor's cooking breaking the stillness. Jazz and his bandmates sat around a small, brightly lit stand, each savoring their bowls of steaming porridge. The warmth of the meal contrasted with the cool night air, as Jazz prepared to share the story of his accident—how he had bumped his head and, in turn, discovered his newfound perfect pitch. The hushed atmosphere invited his bandmates to lean in closer, eager to hear the tale that had changed everything for him.
Just as Jazz wrapped up his tale, Ed broke the silence with a chuckle. "You know what? I think I might try that too!" he exclaimed, playfully bumping his head against the edge of the table with a mischievous grin. "If that's how you got your perfect pitch, then I'm definitely in, men!" His infectious laughter filled the air, lightening the mood once more.
Jake, the drummer, chimed in with a grin. "Hey, Ed! Why don't you ride Jazz's bike? I'll give you a good kick to replicate what happened to him!" The suggestion hung in the air for a moment before they all erupted into laughter, the tension of the night finally breaking as they imagined the absurdity of Ed wobbling on the bike while Jake delivered a playful kick.
* * *
It was their fifth night gig at Pines Hotel, and they were busy setting up their instruments when Troy approached Jazz.
"Hey, Jazz. See that guy over there?" Troy said, gesturing toward the back of the hall. "The man in the black hat, with glasses, a black jacket, and blue pants?"
"Yes, why?" Jazz asked, curious.
"He's here every night," Troy replied, his voice laced with unease.
"So what?" Jazz shrugged, not concerned.
"He's creeping me out," Troy said. "The reason I'm telling you is that he's always staring at you."
"Dude, he's gay!" Ed chimed in, having eavesdropped on their conversation, and let out a small laugh. "I swear, it feels like he's your stalker or something!"
"Shut up, Ed!" Troy shot back.
Jazz glanced toward the back of the hall, his curiosity piqued by Troy's warning. The man in the black hat was now absorbed in his phone, tapping away as if the world around him had faded into the background. Jazz's gaze lingered for a moment, but his contemplation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of a familiar face. Marvin Rosco stepped into view, wearing a tailored black suit that exudes sophistication, his salt and pepper hair neatly combed back, and his glasses adding an air of intellectual charm. Beside him, his wife Lilly donned a sleek formal dress that hugged her figure elegantly, with soft curls cascading down her shoulders. However, it was their daughter Lyra who truly caught Jazz's attention. She stood out with her unique black dress that blended formal and gothic styles, adorned with subtle lace details that added an artistic flair. Her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, the tips dyed a striking purple, contrasting beautifully with her fair skin. Lyra's expressive eyes sparkled with mischief, and the confidence she exuded made her a captivating presence in the room.
"Guys!" exclaimed Jazz, his voice tinged with urgency. "We're in trouble." His bandmates turned to him with curious expressions.
"We have a maestro in the audience," Jazz continued, pointing toward the Rosco family, who were now seated at a nearby table.
"Holy molly!" Ed muttered.
"Come on, guys!" Troy said. "Sir Marvin is a great guy. Just be yourself."
"Actually, you're right, Troy," said Jazz. "I think I forgot to tell you guys that I was at their residence a few days ago. They are such a nice family."
"It was the same day I accidentally bumped my head and got perfect pitch."
* * *
The night's gig came quickly. The band felt a mix of excitement and nerves with the Rosco family in attendance. Despite their jitters, they managed to deliver a solid performance. However, the presence of Marvin Rosco seemed to weigh on them, and their usual relaxed confidence was replaced by a slight tension. They played well, but it wasn't as effortless or as exceptional as their previous nights without the maestro in the audience.
"Nice set, guys!" Marvin Rosco complimented the band as he and his family approached them at the stage. "Well done."
"Thank you very much, Sir," the band replied in chorus.
"Sir Marvin, please meet my bandmates," Jazz said, "Ed on guitar and vocals, Troy on bass, and Jake on drums."
"Nice to meet the rest of Jazz Once!" replied Marvin with a chuckle as he shook their hands one by one.
"Meet my wife, Lilly." Marvin continued. "And my daughter Lyra. I think I forgot to introduce you to my daughter when you were at the house the other day, Jazz."
They chatted a bit more before the Rosco family left the hotel. The rest of the band soon followed, but Jazz stayed behind, coordinating with some hotel staff to accommodate his request. The piano he had been using had some problems; several of the higher keys sounded out of tune. With his newly acquired perfect pitch, Jazz was highly sensitive to these discrepancies, and the microtonal inaccuracies of the piano bothered him greatly.
As soon as he was packing his things up. A voice came up behind him.
"Have you found your Echo yet?"
Jazz turned around and saw the man in the black hat. His face was still partially concealed, but up close, Jazz could see that his eyes were bright and intelligent. The man had an air of refinement about him, with well-groomed features and a subtle confidence that suggested he came from a wealthy family.
"Echo?" Jazz hesitantly asked.
"Please try to find it as soon as possible," the man in the black hat replied, his tone grave. He paused before continuing, "Or something bad will happen here at the hotel." With that, he quickly stormed out.
"Wait!" Jazz exclaimed.
"Sorry, I'm in a hurry," the man in the hat replied, signaling with his hand for Jazz to stay where he was.
Jazz froze for a moment, torn between the mysterious man and the familiar voice. The urgency in the call jolted him into action. He quickly dashed towards the direction of the old piano, his heart pounding with each step. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly. The dim lights flickered, casting eerie shapes that seemed to close in on him. His breath quickened, and the echo of his footsteps bounced off the walls, amplifying his anxiety. The voice grew louder, more insistent, compelling him to move faster. As he approached the poorly lit basement stairway, the air grew colder, and a chill ran down his spine. He could feel the weight of the unknown pressing on him, but he pressed on, driven by an inexplicable pull towards the old, enigmatic piano.
Jazz stood in front of the old piano, its worn and chipped surface illuminated by the dim, flickering light overhead. The voice called his name again, echoing softly yet insistently in the eerie silence. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he approached the piano, his fingers trembling as he reached out to touch it. The wood felt cool and smooth under his fingertips, almost alive with a strange energy.
He pushed a few keys, the notes sounding dull and out of tune. But then, something compelled him to place his fingers on the broken keys that formed a C major seventh chord (CM7). As he did, a jolt of electricity surged through his body, starting from his fingertips and spreading through his veins like wildfire. His eyes widened in shock, his breath catching in his throat. It was as if another entity, an ancient and powerful force, was merging with him. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of pain and ecstasy, like nothing he had ever experienced. His mind was flooded with a torrent of images and sounds, a symphony of memories and emotions that weren't his own. He felt a deep connection to the piano, as if it were an extension of himself, a conduit for something greater. The broken keys vibrated under his touch, resonating with a strange, haunting melody that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. His heart raced, and the electric sensation intensified, becoming too much for him to handle. With a gasp, he collapsed to his knees, his vision blurring and the world around him spinning. In that moment, the energy peaked, and darkness swept over him like a heavy veil. He slumped forward, unconscious.
* * *
As consciousness slowly returned, Jazz found himself lying in a stark, sterile room, the faint beeping of machines punctuating the silence. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the pale walls, casting gentle shadows that danced with the flickering light. Confused, he blinked several times, trying to piece together his surroundings.
A doctor entered, noticing Jazz's awakening. He approached the bedside with a warm smile, his expression a mix of professionalism and concern. "How are you feeling?" he asked gently.
Jazz opened his mouth to respond but hesitated, the events of the night flooding back in fragmented flashes. He couldn't bring himself to speak about what had happened.
The doctor continued, "Do you remember anything about passing out?"
Jazz remained silent, his mind racing but unable to articulate the chaos that had led him here.
"Listen, we ran a series of tests, and everything came back normal," the doctor reassured him, glancing at the clipboard in his hand. "There's nothing physically wrong with you."
Jazz's gaze dropped, absorbing the information but still processing the mystery of the night.
"I'll leave you to rest for a bit," the doctor said, noting his silence. "Your mother was here a while ago, but she stepped out to grab something. She'll be back soon." With that, he turned to exit, leaving Jazz alone with his thoughts, the faint sounds of the hospital echoing around him.
As Jazz gathered his strength, he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. The sterile room around him faded as he stood, a wave of dizziness washing over him momentarily. Blinking against the brightness, he caught sight of something that made his heart race—a piano keybed materializing before him.
The keys shimmered in a mesmerizing light blue hue, as if crafted from ethereal energy. Each key glowed softly, radiating a gentle luminescence that danced in the air, creating an enchanting spectacle. It looked like a hologram, yet there was a palpable sense of magic surrounding it.
Jazz stepped closer, his breath hitching in his throat, barely a foot away from the keybed as he reached out to touch it. Just as his fingers were about to make contact, the piano keybed flickered and vanished, leaving him staring at empty space, a mixture of awe and confusion swirling within him.