The back-seat windows didn’t work. She noticed this as soon as she entered the cab and was confronted by the overpowering smell of stale sweat. She asked the driver, politely as she could, if he would roll open his window so she might get some fresh air. He stared at her for almost a full minute, his hands guiding the wheel, before he turned away and jerked the handle down.
Natalie fidgeted in the emptiness of the large vinyl seat. By now the wedding was over; there was no point in denying it. She was not proud of herself for missing the ceremony, despite the distance that had grown between her and Ellen since their days at school, but she knew the flowers and lace could not help but remind her of Roger and all that she had lost. The prospect of those memories filled her with a cold unyielding dread. It crept down her legs, the muscles seizing one by one, until she found herself sitting on her bed unable to move — invitation for two locked in her soft hands — after the scheduled time for the vows had passed.
The cab wound its way through a series of side streets until it arrived at the reception hall forty-five minutes later — in time to find dusk washing details from the building’s exterior. She had not imagined the hall so big or so old; it towered at the end of the crooked path that led to its door. Pressed against its few lit windows like spectres were the shadows of rosebushes, anxious to witness the events within.
The driver said nothing as he tapped his fingers incessantly upon the wheel, watching Natalie fish through her small purse for his fare. She handed the folded bills to him, but they were barely in his hand before all that was left of his cab was a set of taillights burning down the darkening road.

She brushed a loose hair from her round face and stood before the heavy doors. They were heavy and old, and inside would be nothing she wanted to face, despite the promise she made. She tried to collect herself by taking a deep breath before pulling on the heavy iron handle, but without warning the door swung open and her breath left her as she stumbled backwards, almost

falling over her heels.

“Sorry! Are you hurt?”

“It’s fine,” Natalie said to the man silhouetted by the doorway. She pulled her sleeves into place. “No harm done.”

“I should have known better. The latch seemed stuck. I thought I gave it only a little push.”

Already, Natalie felt awkward. “May I come in?”

“Sorry!” he said again, and swept his thick hand and took a step back to make way for her. The interior light caught his thinning hair and the long sharp nose that was set above his tiny lips. “I’m just on my way out to my car for a moment. I hope I can make it up to you when I get back.” Natalie tried to smile as she stepped past him.

The opulence inside was staggering. A rich, dark hardwood floor filled with white-clothed tables stretched from under her feet into the shadows of the back wall. Across it a thin path, no more than four foot wide, led straight to a long rectangular table set a foot or so higher than the rest. Behind that, framed by roses, a large photograph of Ellen and Graham presided.

The receiving line wrapped itself around a series of pillars that ran the length of the hall, each carved with an intricate pattern of roses and thorny vines that crawled up to the high ceiling. The strains tangled illogically, and they instilled in Natalie a strange sense of vertigo. Eyeing the door, she wondered how hard it would be to back out now, and wished she hadn’t dismissed the cab.

She stood in the receiving line with only her memories as company, but it did not take long before the empty space beside her was swallowed. Guests moved closer, laughing and nudging each other, pushing against her blindly. She struggled against them, trying to avoid being pushed back, while all around her words were being spoken with an intimate familiarity she could no longer understand. Across the room she saw a set of glass doors beyond which a topiary mocked her with freedom from her struggles. The thick of guests continued to bear down as though attempting to crush her, and inside her lungs the scratches of a scream started to form. She closed her eyes tight and pushed it down. Just as she began to sink beneath the flood of people, a hand thrust though like a life-preserver and she grabbed for it.

“Hello. Thanks for coming.”

The bridesmaid who rescued her was unfamiliar, as were all of them. Each wore an identical red velvet gown and far too much makeup, and they stood in a row like department store mannequins. They were exactly as Ellen had described them at school years before, except Natalie was no longer one of the group. She returned the wooden smile, but the bridesmaid’s glazed eyes had already sought out the next guest and Natalie was instead conveyed mechanically down the line of shaking hands that grew hotter and drier. Ellen’s slender touch at the end was perhaps the worst.

“Graham! Look who it is!” Ellen said, and Graham’s warm eyes smiled without recognition. “I’m so glad you decided to come. I don’t see you nearly enough anymore.” She pulled Natalie close for a hug, and her ring dug conspicuously into the flesh of Natalie’s heavy back.

“I wouldn’t have missed it. It was a beautiful ceremony,” Natalie said. Ellen stiffened ever so slightly.

“Thank you. Where were you sitting?”

Natalie sputtered, but before she could answer, Graham interrupted. “We should keep this line moving, dear. The sooner we’re done the sooner we can sit.”

“We’ll talk later,” Ellen said and released Natalie. “I’ll come find you.”

There was trouble immediately upon reaching the seating table. Though most of the name-cards had already been taken, those that weren’t were left in no discernable order. When her folded white card finally revealed itself, Natalie discovered she was unable to pick it up.

“Need a little help?” She turned to face a long sharp nose. “What’s your name?”

“Pardon?”

“For the card,” he twinkled. “I can’t help find where you’re sitting without knowing your name.”

“Oh,” she hesitated; “It’s Natalie. Natalie Weaver.”

“Let’s see,” he said and scanned the table. When the look of shock, followed by disappointment, crossed his face, Natalie knew he had found it. “’N. Weaver and Guest.’ Here you go.” He handed the card to her coldly and did not comment on her reluctance to take it. “You’d better get back to your guest,” he said, with emphasis on the final word. Natalie smiled weakly.

She had been seated across the width of the room, opposite the head table. Behind her was a small raised platform wreathed in roses, and upon it stood a concert grand piano whose nine feet of pale gloss threatened to escape the shadows that confined it. On each side of the instrument, a small staircase climbed its way upward to form the ends of the narrow wooden balcony that encircled the room. The same unsettling pattern of vines and thorns that had been carved into the hall’s pillars continued upon the balcony’s rails and newels.

Around the table Natalie was seated at were six more unfamiliar guests, their bodies twisted to exclude her from their conversation. She sat facing the head table, careful to avert her eyes from the emptiness of the remaining chair beside her.

Dinner came shortly afterwards. The staff, all dressed in polyester formalwear, delivered and removed the plates so efficiently that they seemed not to be there at all. Natalie’s meal, she could have sworn, simply materialized in front of her; she had no recollection of its delivery.

The rest of her table quieted only long enough to stuff food into their mouths. At one point the youngest of the couples caught her eye, but before she could manage a word they pointed over her shoulder and murmured something between them, then laughed at their own private joke.

It all began to weigh upon her. Back at the apartment there were recently empty shelves waiting to be filled again, yet she couldn’t bear to replace anything, not so soon after Roger’s departure. It was strange how he had managed to sneak his possessions into her place one at a time without her noticing, yet when they were again removed there seemed to be a giant hole left in the room. Even her hand wasn’t spared; she couldn’t stop playing with the phantom engagement ring that still clung to her finger.

Natalie looked over at Ellen who was making her way through the crowd, taking time to speak to each table in turn. Around her left arm her train was wrapped like a bandage to keep her from tripping, and her hair was pulled up into a perfect golden bun. Yet Natalie could see the flush in Ellen’s normally pale thin face. Graham followed close behind her, laughing and shaking hands with as many guests as he could. Natalie sipped from her cup of bitter coffee as she watched them approach the table.

“Hello,” Ellen said. “Thank you all for coming.” The entire table around Natalie beamed, and she was struck by how different Ellen looked now.

“He’s late,” Graham said quietly.

“Who?” Ellen asked.

He indicated with a surreptitious glance. Natalie turned to see the large piano behind her was no longer unoccupied. At the keys a man no bigger than a child sat upright on the bench, a large toothy smile carved into his face. He remained still, mesmerised by the crowd before him. His tiny black tuxedo seemed to disappear into the shadows.

“I wonder why we can’t give him more light.”

“It was his ridiculous idea. He says it might ruin the piano.”

Ellen placed a warm palm on Natalie’s shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” Natalie’s eyes darted around the table but the others remained oblivious to her.

“I bet he’s drunk.”

“Graham, keep your voice down.”

“Look at him. I ought–”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Nat? This can’t be easy for you, considering how close you and Roger were to–”

“It’s all right, really,”

“I think he’s just going to sit there. He hasn’t even touched the keys!”

“Graham!”

“I’m going to have a talk with him.”

Ellen sighed. “Nat, Do you mind?”

“Go ahead. Really, I’m fine.”

Ellen patted her shoulder sympathetically and followed Graham.

They descended upon the small musician, their backs blocking Natalie’s view of the piano, and she strained to hear what was said. She missed it over the noise of the room, but whatever it was must have been effective because at once the newlyweds calmed, their bodies relaxing, and both began to nod. Natalie had never known Ellen to back down so quickly, but even more surprising was that when the couple walked away and back to their seats the music still had not yet started to play.

Natalie checked her watch. Three hours had passed since she took her seat and her legs were beginning to stiffen. Every moment that passed threatened to return her thoughts to Roger, so she stood and started for the bar, longing for its solace, but then stopped when she saw the man from the door already there, doing his best to entertain one of the interchangeable young bridesmaids. To Natalie’s astonishment, he was succeeding. He spoke quite animatedly, motioning several times to his jacket, and the bridesmaid lifted her hand to her mouth before using it to playfully swat him. He staggered back with an exaggerated gesture, his arms a windmill, and she laughed all the more. Natalie sat down and prayed for an end to the evening.

At the head table, the best man had stepped up to the microphone. He was not quite as tall as Graham, or as blonde, but there was something familial between them.

“I want to thank everyone for being here today,” he said. “We’ve all been waiting for this day to arrive, but none more than Linda and me. It took so many years for Graham to find someone that the two of us were worried we’d have to take care of him forever. We were forced to step in for the good of us all.” Laughter rippled through the audience. Ellen placed a hand on Graham’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, and he turned towards Natalie. “I spent a long time trying to think of what advice to give the two of you on this day, and all I came up with is this: you have no idea what you’re in for!” The peals of laughter were louder now; they surrounded Natalie, burying her. “So please everyone raise your glasses high and join me in toasting the new couple and their first dance together as husband and wife.”

Natalie jumped as the entire room stood. While they clapped and held their wine glasses aloft, she weaved her way between the tables toward the sliding glass doors to the topiary. Her vision blurred at the sight of Graham and Ellen walking hand in hand to the centre of the dancefloor and she didn’t know how much more of it all she could withstand. She stepped through to the topiary as the sounds of the piano finally being played followed after her.

When her vision cleared, Natalie saw the rosebushes shivering under the artificial light. Around her a strange sequence of muffled sounds carried, as though the distance they had to travel from the keys transformed them into something barely music. What notes she was able to make out acted as a soundtrack for the falling leaves as they describing the twisting paths through the air.

Memories of Roger moved between the carved rosebushes and trees of the small maze. Each sighting drew a cold gasp even though she knew he wasn’t truly there. Tears pushed at the back of her throat, but she struggled to keep them suppressed.

Natalie reached into her purse and withdrew a battered cigarette case that had engraved upon its silver surface an ornate tangle of lines representing her initials. It was the first gift Roger had given her, and even though he had left her she still could not get rid of it. She pulled a cigarette from its open mouth and, cupping her hands to the wind, put her lighter to the end of it.

Natalie was trembling uncontrollably by the time her second cigarette was finished. She rubbed her goosebumps flat to try and bring some warmth back to her arms, and then walked back across the stones and went inside.

From the glass doors, she was struck by the silence. All music, all conversation, had stopped and for a moment she thought the entire hall was empty. Every seat had been vacated, its occupant standing upon the tiny dance floor. The small area could not contain them all and they bled out along the narrow path and into the spaces between the tables. Each held the hands of a partner but their eyes were focused on the back of the room where the piano stood silent in the half-light.

The tiny musician said nothing as he looked at the crowd, his teeth faintly glowing in the lowered light like the surface of the piano. His face was shining too, as though covered in a thin layer of perspiration.

The small wooden balcony creaked above Natalie’s head, the sound amplified by the silence in the hall. On the edge of the crowd before her stood the unmistakable profile of the man from the large entrance doors holding the hands of the bridesmaid he had been speaking to earlier. Both were silent and did not look at each other. Natalie approached him, wishing she had bothered to ask his name, and placed her hand upon the crook of his arm.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Natalie was about to repeat herself when his head finally pivoted with some difficulty towards her and revealed a set of half-closed eyes.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

His lips trembled a moment before soft unintelligible sounds crept out. She leaned closer to listen to the words, but he turned back towards the piano and would not respond again to her, nor would any of the other guests.

She scanned the crowd, wondering where Ellen and Graham were. She called out for them, and her voice sounded overly loud in the dead quiet, but no one moved or responded. The pianist was still smiling as he sat on his perch, his fingers hidden somewhere behind the piano.

Then, with a jerk, both his hands were suddenly in the air, suspended over the keyboard like two tiny claws above his unchanging expression. Nothing moved. Even Natalie held her breath. Then just as quickly they dropped as though pulled by wires back to the keys. The sound the pianist’s flailing hands produced was unlike any she had ever heard; a discordant cacophony of flats and sharps that sounded impossibly together. The notes made no musical sense, but they caused the entire group of guests to sway.

There was another creak from above Natalie’s head and loose rose petals fell to the floor around her. She looked up at the carved wooden balcony and saw Ellen moving in fits and starts in time with the broken rhythm. Across from her, on the opposite half of the shaking balcony, lumbered Graham. Both headed straight for the small staircases that flanked the sides of the pale concert grand piano.

The two descended in unison, their feet landing heavily upon each stair and accentuating each arrhythmic note. Around Natalie the swaying of the crowd intensified and filled the room with a scratched shuffling sound. Ellen and Graham reached the foot of the stairs just as the guests began to stagger forward.

The couple approached the large instrument from either side while between them the small pianist’s fingers danced on the keys like tiny marionettes. From the dark edges of the room, more guests continued to wordlessly lurch forward, gathering like hectic shadows. They nudged Natalie aside as though she weren’t there. She sidestepped as many as she could, but their concentrated numbers forced her to take refuge behind one of the thick wooden pillars. She could feel its carved surface snaking down upon her head.

Ellen and Graham’s hands linked across the width of the piano. Around them, the first of the guests converged, hands still locked. The musician did not turn, and instead continued to play with awkward, exaggerated movements.

The couple lowered their fused hands into the vast open body of the grand piano, and instantly the music changed. The pianist continued to play as the crowd grew, each member placing his or her hands calmly within the instrument while across the hardwood a dark wet shadow began to spread.

The numbers continued to swell as the musician played on, and the sight at the piano became increasingly chaotic. Ellen and Graham had been swallowed by their guests, as had the pianist, and each new pair of bodies approaching them rippled waves though the cluster.

Natalie stepped from her hiding place and again everything stopped cold. She, too, was unable to move or breathe, unsure of what was going to happen.

A single meaty note filled the room, and then another, and at once every body turned in her direction. The dull symphony had resumed and she realised she could not retreat. The music was turned on her and faces blank and indistinguishable shoved against Natalie with bloodied hands. The flood of bodies pounded against her and forced her involuntarily towards the large entrance doors.

Ellen and Graham emerged from the remains of the crowd at the piano, their bleeding hands linked. They were both dishevelled and Ellen’s dress was tinted a burnt red, yet neither acted as if they noticed. Natalie called out to them for help, her shoulders bouncing off the carved pillars that scraped away her skin, but there was no response to her cries; the dull thudding drowned out all other noise.

Late autumn chill fell across her back the further she receded from the piano. Above the crowd around it appeared the grinning head of the pianist, floating as if he stood on his bench or was lifted upon their shoulders. That tiny visage was the last thing Natalie saw of the reception before one final shove knocked her pinwheeling backwards through the open door and onto the stone path that met it.

The door was closed by the time Natalie recovered, solidly blocking all further sound from inside. She tried the handle but it would not budge, nor was there any place at the side of the building she could gain re-entry — even the topiary was hidden behind an impenetrable wall of vegetation. She had no choice but to leave.

It then took almost an hour of stumbling through the maze of streets to find a cab that was willing to stop for her — a woman walking through the dark alone.

——————————————————————————————————
_{Something New is a story featured in Beneath the Surface, a debut collection from Simon Strantzas to be published in September 2008 by Humdrumming. Mr. Strantzas’s work has appeared in At Ease with the Dead and Strange Tales, Vol. II; and soon within the pages of Cemetery Dance, Postscripts, and The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror.}

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Topics: Beneath the Surface, Exclusive, Humdrumming Press, Short Fiction, Simon Strantzas, Something New