A young boy named Arty lived with his father and mother in a decrepit village called Weavan. This village was situated in northern Haallan within the Shaggy Forest; an unkempt forest littered with overgrown vegetation, tangled trees, and fallen branches. Arty’s house stood proudly at the edge of a forest clearing, although it could be said that the house had nothing to be proud of. After all, it was no different from the houses it was sandwiched between.

Although the house had nothing to be proud of, Arty’s mother did. She was an impeccably beautiful, human woman with high cheekbones and just the right amount of rouge to accentuate them. Not only that, but she was the ‘matriarch’ of the neighborhood, although Arty had no idea what that meant.

In contrast, Father was a diminutive elvish man, both in nature and personality. He was barely five-feet-tall and was particularly skittish and paranoid (although Arty never saw any of this paranoia). He was only a father, nothing else. He spent most of his time at home with his son.

Arty was eight-years-old and spent most of his time engaged in ceiling-gazing. Because Arty “had music in him”, his father and mother made the decision long ago that the boy was never to leave the house, and was to spend most of his time locked in his room.

It was a typical day for Arty, although a typical day for Arty was far from a typical day for others his age. He was following his usual schedule; he got up early, took a bath that his butler, Beardsley, had poured for him, and then began doing the arithmetic and readings that his parents assigned him afterward.

He was alone with the eerie scratching of his pencil against parchment, the creaking of the dilapidated house, and the low sound of the bass, erratically changing in volume and scale as he solved his arithmetic problems.

A loud crash in the hallway interrupted the peaceful monotony.

Arty’s pointed ears perked up.

His head jerked toward his bedroom door.

There was a gentle scratching at the dilapidated door that sounded a lot like his pen scratching parchment.

Before he could think his actions through, he found himself climbing off his bed.

He pressed his cheek against the door, looking out through the crack upon the golden-colored, pink polka dot hallway with wide eyes.

The scratching stopped.

A gentle tapping filled his ears.

The creature at his door must have turned down the hallway.

His hands became cold and sweaty.

Spidery shadows were cast upon the peeling, polka dot walls in the adjacent hallway.

The tapping became louder and louder. The shadows spread, like liquid, from the walls to the carpet, stretching toward him.

Arty backed away from the door with a gasp, crawling under his bed.

Black shapes crept under the door.

All was silent as they spread, like water, toward Arty.

The boy whimpered, backing further under the bed.

Arty screwed his eyes shut.

Something rough and hairy touched his arm.

“Arty?” A familiar voice called as the door creaked open.

Arty was silent for a moment, untrusting of the voice despite its familiarity.

“Dad?” Arty eventually replied, his fear melting away.

The boy opened his eyes to gaze upon Father’s familiar boots.

Father lowered himself onto his belly, getting a good look under the bed.

Arty’s blue eyes met Father’s brown ones. “What’re you doing under there, Arty?”

“Hiding.” Arty answered shortly.

Father laughed. “Hiding from what?”

“The spiders.” Arty whispered.

Father sat on his knees, motioning for Arty to crawl out. “Come on, Art. There’s nothing out here but your old man!”

“Check the closet?” Arty requested.

Father chuckled. “Come out first, and I’ll show you that there are no monsters.”

Arty looked to the side, and then back at Father’s knees. “Okay.”

The boy crawled out from under the bed.

His eyes were drawn to his bedroom door.

He heard the faint sounds of something skittering down the hallway.

“You’re always so serious!” Father exclaimed, sweeping his son up in his arms.

Father poked his nose, finally gaining Arty’s attention. “Are you ready? Let’s open the closet and make sure there are no monsters!”

Arty leaned his cheek against Father’s chest as he walked over to the closet. “What could be in there? Could it be… Arty’s clothes?”

Arty’s arms tightened around Father’s torso, his hands digging into his back.

“Nothing to fear, Daddy is here!” Father announced and swung the closet door open.

Arty pressed himself harder against Father’s chest with a yelp.

“See. Nothing.” Father assured his son.

It took him awhile, but Arty eventually got up the courage to glance at the closet.

It was empty but for deep shadows cast against the wall and a few articles of clothing hanging eerily from the closet rod.

Father gently set Arty down on the blue carpet, kneeling next to him.

Father gazed at him unblinkingly, wearing a big, unflinching smile on his face.

Arty didn’t know what father was expecting of him, but his unblinking stare was making him uncomfortable. The boy lowered his gaze bashfully.

Eventually, father snorted with laughter. “I was wondering if I could get you to speak if I waited long enough. I was wrong!”

Arty didn’t know what to say, so he said, “I’m glad you’re here, Dad.” Arty wore a sheepish grin. “It’s been forever.”

Father was overjoyed to hear it. “I’m glad, too. And you know what? Mother is gone today, so we can have all the fun we want so long as we stay inside the house.”

“Outside my room?” Arty whispered excitedly. Leaving his room was always an adventure.

“Yep! Are you ready?”

Arty nodded vigorously.

Father creaked Arty’s door open.

The sound made Arty’s skin crawl; he resisted crawling back under the bed.

Outside in the golden, polka dot hallway, the spidery shadows had disappeared, but Arty’s fear hadn’t. For comfort, he grabbed Father’s hand and the two walked out into the hallway together.

__

Arty lay on his belly in the living room on a moth-eaten carpet, stiffly making a wooden horse gallop back and forth with his Father. Father was doing his best to entertain Arty; he made the silliest, loudest, noises he could muster as the pair galloped the horse between them, but all he could get out of Arty was the smallest of smiles.

Finally, Father held the horse still when Arty passed it to him. “Is something wrong, Arty?”

Arty murmured, “I miss Mom...”

Father rubbed the back of his neck with a heavy sigh. “She’s a busy woman, Art. Matriarch isn’t an easy job.”

Arty leaned a cheek on his hand. “What is a matriarche?” Arty asked, mispronouncing the word, “Matriarch”.

“I’ve told you before; your mother is essentially the queen of our village!” Father exclaimed proudly.

“Queen?” Arty repeated.

“Oh yes. We’re very lucky to have her. She handles all the complaints from the residents, she makes the rules that keep us safe, and she organizes events like Gizzenbar that keep us all happy!” Father explained.

Arty blinked. “Gizzenbar…? Can I see a… Gizzenbar?”

Father covered his mouth as if he had said a bad word. He recovered quickly, chuckling awkwardly. “Someday soon, of course you can.”

Arty lowered his chin onto his arms, disappointed. “I still can’t go outside?”

Father looked at his son compassionately. “Not yet. Remember what Mother said? There’s music in you, and if you go outside, the notes will float away.”

Arty nodded despondently. He whispered, “But why do I have to have music in me? Why can’t I be like any other kid?”

Father scooted over to Arty, wrapping an arm around him. “Having music inside you is a gift, trust me.”

Arty processed that information silently. Eventually, he nodded obediently. “If Mom is a… Matriarch, then what are you?”

Father grinned. “I’m just a dad—and that’s the best thing I’ll ever be!”

Arty smiled a little at that. “How come you’ve been gone so much lately? Usually it’s just mom that’s gone...”

“Because me and your mother have been trying to organize something. Don’t worry, though. I should be able to spend much more time with you soon.” Father assured him.

“And Mom?” Arty queried.

“Mom too. She’ll be seeing you tomorrow night.”

Arty brightened at that. “Good.”

Arty was in good spirits for the rest of the day.

__

Strings.

Any instrument with strings played the most in Arty’s head. When he stared up at the ceiling at night, trying to sleep, he could hear the soft sawing of a violin droning on at the edge of his hearing. Sometimes, this music helped him to sleep. Other times, it kept him alert and awake. Tonight, he tossed and turned restlessly, just hoping for an ounce of sleep and wishing he would stop thinking of the villains who may or may not be lurking outside his door.

He turned on his side—toward his bedroom wall--feeling light-headed from lack of sleep.

His eyes widened.

A spidery shadow was growing upon the wall.

The strings became louder as the shadow became larger and larger.

His door creaked.

The violin overwhelmed him, screeching in his pointed ears.

The shadow reached out with its slender hands.

The violin was spiders crawling in his ears.

Eventually, all sound ceased as the violent noises culminated in a raspy, distorted whisper.

__

In the morning, Arty woke up with black circles under his eyes and the sound of a gentle harp easing him into wakefulness.

Arty had no energy to move. He sat up, still covered in blankets, and looked at his bedroom wall listlessly.

There was a knock on his door.

Arty hid under his blanket.

“Master Arty? May I come in?”

Realizing that the voice belonged to his butler, Beardsley--a purple troll with elegant, spiral-tipped, pointed ears, Arty whispered, “You can come in.”

Arty emerged from his covers as the door creaked open. The boy was always surprised by how well the butler could balance a plate full of food in one hand.

The smell of toast, bacon, and eggs filled his nostrils and made him forget how sleepy he was. The butler placed the plate of food on Arty’s lap with an elegant flourish.

Arty grinned at the smiley-faced plate of eggs and bacon looking up at him. “Dad must have made this…”

“He did, Master Arty. He had just enough time to do so this morning before he had to go out with your mother to handle some business.”

The harp at the edge of his hearing went from melodic and peaceful to chaotic with no discernible melody in a matter of moments.

“When will they be back?” Arty asked, the harp increasing in volume.

Beardsley’s mouth was moving, but the harp was so loud that Arty couldn’t hear him. Arty’s chin trembled, tears running down his cheeks. He whispered, “What?”

Beardsley’s mouth moved again, but the mayhem of the harp swallowed his words whole. Arty stared at Beardsley expressionlessly, trying to understand what he was saying. The butler sat beside him and dried his tears with a handkerchief. Arty sniffled, hugging him because he was the only one around who could provide him comfort.

Eventually, the harp faded to the edge of his hearing. Arty was so relieved that he wept all-the-harder. “I can hear again!” He cried.

Beardsley didn’t understand what the boy was talking about, but he knew he was in pain. “You couldn’t hear?”

Arty clapped a hand to his mouth, remembering that his mother and father told him never to tell anyone that he had music in him. In a moment, he thought up a lie and uncovered his mouth. “You see, sometimes my hearing just drops out.”

Beardsley raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry, Master Arty.”

Arty shrugged and told another lie. “Doesn’t bother me. Do mom and dad mind if I leave the room today?”

Beardsley nodded reluctantly. “They say that it’s unsafe for you today, whatever that means. I’m to be the one who helps you with your numbers and letters and keeps you entertained today. What would you like to do first?” Beardsley was Arty’s newest butler, and didn’t understand the many rules Arty’s parents had. Sometimes, Arty wondered what happened to his last six butlers.

Arty frowned, disheartened by the fact that keeping him entertained was such a chore to his parents and to Beardsley. Arty looked down. “You don’t have to do any of that stuff if you don’t want to, Beardsley.”

Beardsley shook his head. “It’s no problem at all, sir. I would love to play with you and help you with your numbers and letters.”

The harp became peaceful again.

Arty cleared his throat. “So long as you don’t mind. Just let me get dressed.”