She often plucked the threads.  Hearers turned their heads.  The threads sang a tune.  Musical notes so light and dark and everywhere in her room.  The stings sang a becoming tune.

Outside they could hear notes singing and calling, calling them, calling them.  Irresistible reaching out note by note. The song traveled far and wide.  On every side, the notes would glide, glide to find the ones who would answer the call to come, a certain few.  For some it was tempting and gnawing away at their resistance pulling at their hearts and most importantly, most vile, most of all the worst of the worst, at their souls.

Slowly and with invasive intentions, the notes spread out moving the song far and wide in wavy waves scattered and rippling through the air reaching many ears.  What did this matter to the owner of the strings?  It mattered more than anyone would know, especially the story tellers would know, they wouldn’t know, no knowing.  And the strings sang a song beckoning them note by note in the song the notes cunningly spoke.

Daily and nightly, as needed or wanted the strings kept singing.  The resistance waned and slowly some answered the call, the call to come, come closer, and come closer they sang.  More answered and more after that, but that was only the beginning.  They kept singing, the strings continued to call louder and with invasive intensity.

We couldn’t resist, we had to answer the call, the call of the musical singing.  The call of the music rippled out regularly.  Experts in science, musicology, psycho babble, and several agencies who shall remain nameless, started working, working on survival techniques.  Yet, they had no answers, but they too, heard the call, the singing of the strings.

Years and decades passed, for some slower, and for others much faster. Remembering history and passing the knowledge gleaned from many sources throughout the world, there was little we could do.  Dismayed, horrified, and defeated we resigned ourselves to our fate, and did our best to hang on, no matter what came our way.  The threads sang a tune irresistable for some, leaving but few to helplessly watch families and friends go the way of the strings and then be naught.

An older gentleman of meager stature joined in our fight.  We thought him too young and inexperienced to be working on this huge and needed project, yet his youthful enthusiasm rang true and he worked, worked more than we expected.   Plucking the threads continued, we had to find the answers, the singing must stop.  Atop the hills the song rippled outward.  Some followed the singing. Youthful energy and desire ceased, the strings called him from us.

A few conspired to convince the head directors to find a more experienced scientist. The strings changed history: he was gone, his youthful enthusiasm extinguished before any actions could be taken.  Gaining audience with the head judge took much longer than expected, but the strings knew; change came slowly.  We understood sooner rather than later the strings would sing again and again. 

Scouts followed the music but didn’t find the source.  They barely managed to resist the calling of the strings.

How strange the singing strings didn’t bring the scouts to the right spot. That knowledge gave us the idea the singing was note by note specially plucked to bring only selected beings to the right place.  This, the spot of no return, the place carefully guarded, for the strings sang and they were powerful and cunning.

Our days became darker and darker as the singing strings called.  Generations began to forget.  The generations who knew about and understood the reasons for research slowly were expiring.  Loss of our history a little at a time while elders went to the place beyond, made resisting the singing strings a foreboding for everyone’s future.  The strings’ powerful call.  The song of the strings.  The loss of generations and history, all because we were powerless to resist the melodic singing of the strings.

Individuals disappeared as the singing strings worked against us, calling us, taunting us, only us, calling us.  Singing strings called; we, at least, the chosen ones, answered the call, knowing who the chosen ones would be.  How it worked, you see, is a mystery.  

By now, generation after generation died off unnaturally by answering the call of the singing strings.

Few of us still lived to listen to the singing strings.  Our resolve for survival dissolved.  We made peace with our situation.  We were ready to go.  We also would go and answer the singing strings calling and calling and calling.  

The day nor the hour was known to us.  All we had left was time; however, how much, and nothing, absolutely nothing but waiting, to do what?  Answer the calling of the singing strings.

As our population dwindled I thought of the ancestors, the good times, friends and family, and their demise which no one knew how to stop.  To have the strings cease singing.  To have silence.  To be free from the singing of the strings.

Once again the singing began.  Ignoring the musical sounds became impossible.  Everyone moved toward the forest.  The trees waved as we passed.  The breeze nudged us forward. The sky dimmed as the tree cover became more dense.  The sing-song melody wafted everywhere: far and wide it penetrated our kingdom.  Singing and singing, clearly calling for our presence.  A presence, a time, a demand to be with the singing strings.

I stayed far back, resisting as much as possible, but the struggle was depleting my energy as if a vacuum sucked me empty and dry.  The strings cared not.  The strings sang and sang and called and called.  I didn’t want to answer the call, but I could no longer resist nor did I care. The singing strings overpowered me, and the few of us still alive, (if this is life,) moved robotically through the forest.

The folks in the front reached the source of the singing strings, and, extending their hands, helplessly reached toward the source.  A worship service, so it seemed, began. Everyone moved in time, beat by beat to the rhythm of the notes.  The notes of the singing strings mesmerizing and beckoning and inviting everyone to become one with the singing strings.

I looked, and I saw, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.  A huge shape slowly descended down the strings getting closer to everyone, especially those unfortunates right in front of all the strings.  Eight legs plucked the strings moving the shape closer, and closer, and closer.  My mouth dropped in horror and terror. I was like a deer in the headlights, a statue, as I noticed string emerging from the back end of the creeping thing.  It moved slowly over and through the victims who began to vanish behind the string.  More and more string, around and around it went, over and over.  I wanted to flee, but I remained immovable, stillness wrapped around me like a blanket of severe discomfort.  Not that I would be able to leave the singing of the strings.  I was now part of the musical singing.  I was part of the ritual.  I was full of the knowledge of the singing strings, yet I could tell nothing and do nothing.

Then they were gone, then the next closest were gone, and so it went until I shuddered, realizing I soon would be next.  I ached to be far away.  My muscles would not bend to my mental command to move.  Paralyzed and glued to this spot I could only listen, and watch, and wait.

Helpless, I could not move, but swayed to the rhythm of the singing strings.  I couldn’t make my body go anywhere.  I couldn’t look away.  I struggled to reach into my pocket.  A big cotton ball was hiding there.

By this time I was alone.  No one survived.  The strings  gripped the suspended cocoons, keeping them in place throughout the strands.  

Big, and towering over me, it moved away and started plucking the strings.  I still was glued in place.  Amazed to be alive, I watched it move to something struggling within the singing strings. The wrapping process began again. String emerged from behind. The thing moved just enough to wrap its package.

Years before my generation became victims of the singing strings, a wise and kind couple preached and told the story of disappearances.  We thought these stories were fables.  We mostly ignored the repetitions, but my family listened.  Only thing I should have remembered earlier before the devastation and eradication of everyone is the only way to overcome the singing strings.  

The memory was lost to me until my life was almost extinguished.  I alone survive because I remembered to stuff my ears.  I no longer heard the music.  The music no longer kept me captive.  I no longer had to listen or feel the musical vibrations.   Never again did I venture to the cave of the singing strings.

 I’m the only one alive to tell the story to no one.

Have you heard the singing of the strings? What do they sound like to you?

Did you follow everyone, or did you observe from afar?