Who sings this?” my grandmother asked as I placed needle on spinning vinyl, bringing to life an aura of music. A soothing and charming voice stirred the heart above a movement of catchy melodies and rhythmic bass. The way the voice careened from lyric to lyric brought the music to life in a story of one’s own soul, striking relevance for all who listened.

“It’s you,” I replied.

“Me?” she questioned. “How could that be me? I don’t even know how to sing.”

“You not only know how to sing, you are—well, were—one of the greatest singers and lyricists of your time.”

My grandmother grumbled. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t you think I would know if I’m a singer or not?” She grumbled again.

“I’m serious, Grandma—that’s really you.”

“Why did you call me ‘Grandma’?” she asked.

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My son looked so innocent and full of happiness. His wavy, golden brown hair bounced softly while he hunted the red ball that continually evaded his uncoordinated efforts of collection, and the slightly oversized, brown, suede jacket encasing his figure only did him harm on his quest. Every time he missed a grasp on the ball with his clumsy hands, he laughed and continued his chase.

Through this child’s joy, I knew no greater joy of my own. His happiness and wellbeing meant everything to me. That enigma by name of selflessness that had been so foreign to me came crashing through my eyes, shattering them and renewing them upon his birth. I finally had a purpose I could hold onto and nurture.

I watched my son in the backyard through one of the windows in my office on the second floor of our house and pondered upon a timeline of endless contentment. Life and happiness are so simple, I thought to myself. What more do I need?

The rain then began…

Click here to download TDV Episode 84

I called my house the Old Souls Orphanage—a haven for the elderly without a place to call home. Those in the latter years of life who had not the funds or family to be given the living quarters of comfort and peace that were deserved came to my abode to receive well-appointed accommodations. I gave them what no one else would and I did it without fee. My only requirements for those that stayed within my walls were that they had no illness and were self-sufficient. My house did not have the personnel or equipment necessary to deal with conditions of health and dependency.

The house, which in actuality was a mansion, was built of stone and brick. It stood three stories tall, holding: nine bedrooms; six bathrooms; three studies each with a fireplace and a unique collection of books; a large kitchen and pantry; a dining hall; and an extensive basement connected to the rest of the house by a spiraling passageway void of steps…

His play of the piano was remarkable. The way his fingers careened along the keys was like a swift and gentle stream that invoked the serenity and beauty of nature’s kiss. His melodies, with their masterful fermatas and crescendos, called out in prayers to the ears.

The music was a triumph beyond those things known, but the man himself was troubling to behold. He had eyes and a smirk that told of unlawful things, but it was more than just that. He was evil and there was no second guessing that notion. It could be felt. It could be seen. It was simply—yet unexplainably—known. Thick brown hair covered his head and a sharp, black suit fell upon his figure…

There was nothing wrong with my childhood that should have ever attracted the blackness that arose at the age where toy robots, slingshots, and water guns were the apple of my eye—I played, I fought, I got hurt, I got in trouble, and I learned. Despite my innocence, the ominous stars aligned and allowed the oddest of circumstances to bring a tool of the rarest kind into my possession…