The window frame rattled viciously as I finally dragged my suitcase into the small room; the door slammed immediately after with a crashing “bang,” its immense momentum generated a gush of wind that pounded into my back and send me tumbling forward. Wiping my forehead, damped with sweat and melted snow, I scanned my lodging: the wooden beams were peeled and sliced, one was merely connected to the other with a loose strand of fiber; the floorboards were rotten, brown, and merged almost completely with the dirt; the walls were no better. Overgrown mosses covered every inch and cracks like greyish cement; the room was so dim that the frame of a single bed and table wore ghostly outlines. It was not ideal, but when one was lost in a forest and in a ferocious snowstorm, the sight of a motel was not a chance one would be willing to forgo. Upon entering, I found the front lobby devoid of life and as well as the reception, so I helped myself to a room on the ground floor, with its door exposed to the strong and the “welcome” doormat half concealed under patches of white. Surely one would forgive my rude entrance for the terrible blizzard outside.

I peered out the frost masked window but could not make out anything from the white wilderness that had overtaken the lively forest. Snow attacked silently with its cold rather than with commotions. All was quiet, tranquil, and frankly a bit dull. Signing, I opened my trunk and pulled out my fiddle. It was a delicate little instrument, its wood slick and shiny. I loved it at first sight – or first sound – and forced the burden of living upon it… Yet no one seemed to appreciate my music. If nothing came out of the next town still. Maybe we really need to part ways.

“That must not happen” I muttered to myself as I slid my bow gently along the strings; chords flooded the poky room, syncing with the wind and flapping with the wooden singles. The melody sang somber and melancholy; the notes low and rumbly, depicting the running clouds of the night; the vast and lonely sky, heavy with snow, sank nearer to the ground – notes deepening and skinning; disrupted by the hooting of owls – notes winding and sharpening. Arm lifting gracefully as the piece draws to an end, I bowed to a wild audience, coins flooded my hat.

They cheered, they clapped – oh how rapturously they clapped, as if they were really here… as if they were, really, not within my ears.

It was definite. Applauses – the sound of two objects, flesh made, clapping together. Where were they? They were close. They were definitely close.

“Who’s there!” I shouted in alarm but only claps replied, the sound radiating out from every moss-covered wall, echoing in the deadly silence. In this small theater of a room, the hair on the back of my nape stood up – someone’s behind me! I whipped around – but nothing; maybe it was too dim; I can’t see what’s behind; was someone behind me now? I inched my head to look, pupils dilating and sweat accumulating on my forehead; again. Nothing. The only movement were from my weak fingers, quivering on the neck of the instrument, its stings cutting into my flesh.

Presently the clapping dissipated into the frosty air, dying down to a faint noise. Ha! I knew it was only me fancying, only a hallucination, a derailed imagination! I bent down to put my violin back into the suitcase and in a swift movement I buckled the blet that secured the trunk, swung it off the table, grabbed my cap from the bed and raced hurriedly to the door. “Better not take any chances,” I gulped and thought out loud. The door was blocked on the inside by the floor tiles, so I pushed with all my might. He door barely nudged. Snow escaped from the cracks; the snow must have blocked it on the outside as well! Oh good. Why is this happening. Cold sweat coated my hands and forehead as I pushed, struggled, forced!

Suddenly I froze, the hairs on my nape spiked up, my whole body trembled.

A single clap sounded, right behind me.