The Cellist’s Interval

During the last year at Kaminoyama High, I was in the orchestra, playing cello. Our rehearsal room was in the west annex, a recent addition built over the old bomb shelter. It was late September, and the days were still warm, but the corridors had a persistent chill. After a long practice, I needed to use the bathroom. The closest one was a side corridor off the main hall, with the boys’ entrance at the end, tucked behind a cleaning closet. The lights flickered whenever someone passed the sensor, and the door to the boys’ room was always left ajar to let out the stale smell of disinfectant.

I pushed the door open, not bothering to close it, and stepped to the urinal. As I stood there, I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye – a tall, dark shape moving past the doorway, heading further down the corridor, where there was nothing but a locked storage room and a dead end. I assumed it was another student, but something felt off. The movement was too smooth, too silent. I finished quickly and stepped out to check. The corridor was empty. I walked to the end, my footsteps echoing, and tried the storage room door. It was locked, as always. No one could have gone through. I checked the main hall – no one. The only other exit was the window at the far end, but it was sealed shut, and there was no one in sight.

The next day, I mentioned it to my friend, Satoshi, who played the viola. He dismissed it as a trick of the light. But that changed when we were packing up. He asked for my spare bow, which I’d left in the practice room. I went back to grab it, and as I passed the same side corridor, I noticed the storage room door was slightly ajar. Curious, I pushed it open. Inside was not the usual cleaning supplies, but a cramped, dusty office, with a small desk and a wall of file cabinets. On the desk sat a metal music stand, tilted as if someone had just stepped away. On the stand was a sheet of music, yellowed with age. The title read: ‘Interval No. 7’. Below it, in pencil, was a note: ‘For the cellist who listens. Play me after midnight, and I will show you the deeper corridor.’

I laughed it off, but I couldn’t shake it. That night, I returned alone, with my cello. I placed the music on my stand and played it. The notes were simple, a slow adagio, but they felt heavier as I played. At the exact moment I struck the final note, I heard a sound behind me – a faint creak, like a door opening. I spun around. The storage room door, which I had shut, was now ajar, and beyond it, where there should have been a wall, was a dark corridor. I had a sudden urge to step out, but a shadow stood at its entrance – the same silhouette I had seen. It raised a hand, as if beckoning, and then it turned and walked away, deeper into the black.

I slammed the door shut and ran. I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I tried to find any map or record of that corridor. The school archives showed that the annex was built in 1956 on the site of an older structure, which had been abandoned after a fire. Legend had it that a music teacher had died there – a cellist, who perished in a fire that consumed the old music room. They said he still played at night. I realized then that the shadow I saw was not a trick – it was him, trying to get me to follow. But I also knew that if I did, I would find the missing pieces of the school’s history, the ones that the renovation had kept hidden.

Two weeks later, the orchestra was preparing for a concert. I had to stay late to finish a solo. As I stepped into the practice room, I saw the music stand in the corner – the very sheet I had played. It was lying on my chair. I picked it up, and this time, there was a new note: ‘You played my piece. Now I will play yours.’

I tried to leave, but the door was locked. The lights flickered, and I heard cello music – not from my instrument, but from the corridor. It was a dissonant, jagged melody, like the sound of a bow scraping steel. I pressed my ear to the door. The melody grew louder, until it was a scream. Then silence. The door swung open. The corridor was dark, but I saw a faint glow from the storage room, now open wide. I walked, as if pulled, to the threshold. Inside, the room was transformed – it was a small concert hall, with a single spotlight on a stage. On that stage was a cellist, his back to me. He played furiously, with a bow that was missing its horsehair, and his fingers left black streaks on the fingerboard. He played for minutes, hours, I couldn’t tell. When he stopped, he turned.

His face was a hollow, gnarled mask of wood, like a petrified tree. His eyes were empty except for glowing amber. He pointed at me, and I felt my hands move to my cello. I began to play, not the piece I knew, but a wild improvisation, as if my fingers were possessed. The room filled with a cold wind, and the music seemed to suck the light out of the air. I played until my arms ached, until my tears froze on my cheeks, until I collapsed.

I woke up on the floor of the practice room, my cello snapped in two. The sheet music was gone. But I could still hear, faintly, a melody in my head – the same jagged tune. Even now, when I close my eyes, I see the corridor behind the storage room, and I know that one day, I will walk it again, because the cellist is still waiting for his final performance.