Page 34 of In Her Bed
“Goodnight, old friend,” she whispered to the empty room.
Melody Forge Studios sat on the outskirts of Pinecrest, nestled between aging warehouses that provided both privacy and the acoustics she prized.What had once been a forgotten industrial space she’d transformed into a haven for musicians, both established and aspiring.The exterior remained deliberately understated, but inside, behind sound-dampening walls and specialized doors, she’d created something magical.
Sandra’s routine never varied.She moved from studio to studio, carefully powering down mixing boards, checking that microphones were properly stored, and ensuring instruments were secure.Each step was performed with precision born from years of practice.The gradual diminishing of electrical hums—the studio’s heartbeat—marked her progress through the building.
In the control room, she ran her hand over the gleaming console one last time, pressing buttons in careful sequence.One by one, the indicator lights faded, leaving only the faint red glow of standby mode.She gathered scattered coffee mugs left by the day’s clients and stacked them by the small kitchenette sink.Washing them would be tomorrow’s first task.
As Sandra entered the lobby, her gaze settled on her newest acquisition—an antique phonograph she’d purchased from Howard Mitchell’s estate sale just a few days ago.Unlike the sleek, modern equipment that dominated her studio, the phonograph stood proudly anachronistic with its large wooden base and gleaming brass horn speaker curving elegantly upward like a morning glory blossom opening to the sun.
She approached it reverently, reaching out to feel the smooth wooden edge polished by hands from another era.Howard had kept it in immaculate condition.The cylinder-playing mechanism looked as though it could have been manufactured yesterday rather than over a century ago.
“Worth every penny,” she murmured, remembering the raised eyebrows and gentle ribbing from her sound engineers when she’d had it delivered.
“What’s next, Sandra?Wax tablets and a stylus?”Tony had joked, while Melissa had simply shaken her head.“You and your vintage toys.”
But they didn’t understand.This wasn’t just an antique; it was a piece of musical history—a direct connection to the pioneers who had first captured sound and preserved it for future generations.For Sandra, who had dedicated her life to recording and producing music, these early devices held an almost sacred significance.
From the collection of cylinders she’d also purchased at the estate sale, Sandra selected one labeled in faded script: “In the Good Old Summer Time — Collins & Harlan, 1911.”She’d been saving this one for a quiet moment like this, when she could fully appreciate it without interruption.
Carefully, she wound the mechanism, feeling the spring tighten under her touch.The mechanical resistance felt satisfying, physical in a way digital technology never could be.She placed the wax cylinder onto its mount and gently lowered the needle.
For a moment, nothing happened.Then a scratchy hiss emerged from the brass horn, followed by the tinny, distant voices of men long dead.The melody stuttered into existence, imperfect and magical.Despite the primitive recording technology, the joy in the performers’ voices traveled clearly across the century, which separated them from Sandra.
She closed her eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm.Almost unconsciously, her own voice rose to harmonize with the recording, filling in the gaps where time had degraded the cylinder’s surface.Her rich alto wrapped around the scratchy tenor voices, complementing without overpowering them.
For a brief, perfect moment, Sandra sang with ghosts:
“In the good old summer time,
In the good old summer time,
Strolling through the shady lanes
With your baby mine …”
When was the last time she’d really sung?Not the absent-minded humming while adjusting levels or the demonstration phrases to show a nervous young vocalist what she wanted, but truly singing with her whole self?The realization made her throat tighten.Years.It had been years.
The phonograph’s scratchy rendition continued as memories washed over her.Spotlights so bright they turned the audience into a sea of darkness.The weight of sequined gowns.The electric anticipation before stepping onto stages in cities whose names now blurred together.The power of holding a thousand strangers captive with nothing but her voice.
And then, the gradual faltering.Notes that once came effortlessly, requiring more and more effort.The specialist in Chicago with his concerned frown.“Vocal cord nodules.Not uncommon in performers who push too hard for too long.”
Sandra’s hand drifted unconsciously to her throat as the memory of that diagnosis resurfaced.The treatments had helped, but her range had never fully returned.Rather than cling to a diminished version of her former glory, she’d chosen to step back, to channel her passion into helping others achieve what she once had.
The cylinder recording reached its conclusion, the final notes fading into a soft scratching sound before silence reclaimed the lobby.Sandra opened her eyes, the spell broken.She carefully lifted the needle and removed the cylinder, returning it to its protective sleeve.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said softly to the long-dead performers, feeling oddly comforted by their brief company across time.
The wall clock read 11:42 PM.Later than she’d realized.Sandra gathered her shoulder bag and keys, making a final sweep of the lobby.She adjusted the thermostat, checked that the alarm system was ready to arm, and switched off all but the security lights.
At the main entrance, she punched in the alarm code, which gave her sixty seconds to exit before activating.The familiar beeping began its countdown as she stepped outside into the cool night air, locking the door behind her.
The parking lot sat in dim half-light.The single lamppost near the entrance cast more shadows than illumination, its reach not extending to the far corner where her car waited.The neighboring warehouses loomed like sleeping giants, their darkened windows reflecting nothing.
Sandra started toward her car, her footsteps crunching loudly on the gravel.The sound seemed to amplify in the stillness, punctuating the cricket song that rose from the grassy areas beyond the lot.
Halfway to her vehicle, a prickling sensation crawled up her spine—a feeling that she wasn’t alone.She slowed, suddenly aware of how isolated she was.She slowed, feeling her isolation.At this hour, the industrial area was deserted.
Had that shadow by the dumpster moved?Sandra squinted, trying to pierce the darkness.
