A Tale of Melody and Malady
by Jude Trail
“The Persistent Phantom of Frequencies Past”
“In chambers of silence the ghost notes remain, a ceaseless orchestra that none may hear save I; the conductor of phantoms, the maestro of pain.” — From “The Invisible Symphony” by Edwin Haredale
The morning light, that most impartial of visitors, streamed through the dusty blinds of the studio window, illuminating the suspended particles that danced upon its rays like so many notes of forgotten melodies. It fell, this gentle illumination, upon the recumbent form of Edwin Haredale, whose long frame was stretched across an ancient leather sofa, its cracks and creases telling tales of decades gone by, not unlike the lines that now adorned the face of its occupant.
Edwin’s eyes opened with that peculiar reluctance known only to those who dread the coming day not for what it might bring, but for what it invariably would, an unceasing, maddening whispering chorus that dwelt within his ears. As consciousness returned to him fully, so too did they, those phantoms of frequencies past, that persistent specter which had become his most faithful and unwelcome companion these three years hence.
“Ah, and good morning to you as well,” Edwin muttered to the empty air, addressing the high-pitched whine that no other mortal could perceive. “I trust you slept as poorly as I.”
He rose to his full height, a considerable six feet and five inches, and stretched his frame. At forty-five years of age, Edwin Haredale cut a figure both imposing and pitiful. His once raven hair, now streaked liberally with silver, hung in wild disarray about a face that, in its youth, had graced the covers of musical periodicals with a regularity that now seemed to belong to another man’s history altogether. His fingers, long and nimble still despite the passage of years, bore the calluses of his trade, permanent badges of honor from countless hours of communion with taut metal strings.
The studio, like its owner, bore all the marks of former glory now faded. Once the creative sanctuary of The Midnight Ramblers, that most celebrated of indie rock ensembles of the late nineteen-nineties and early naughts, it now stood as a mausoleum to ambitions unrealized and melodies unfinished. Guitars hung upon the walls like prisoners suspended in time, a 1965 Stratocaster here, a Gibson Les Paul there, each bearing silent witness to the tragedy of their master’s condition.
The room itself presented a curious amalgamation of epochs. Vintage valve amplifiers stood alongside the sleek black monoliths of contemporary digital interfaces. Analog mixing consoles with their reassuring physical faders occupied space near holographic display screens showing three-dimensional representations of sound waves, all encased within the ornate cornices and high ceilings of the original Victorian building that had once housed a printing press, then a milliner’s shop, and now this shrine to musical endeavors both past and, perhaps, future.
Edwin navigated this cluttered domain with the practiced movements of one who has memorized the location of every obstacle, pausing only to activate the coffee machine, a gleaming contraption of stainless steel and blinking lights that produced beverages with names longer than some of the verses he had once penned.
“Your usual auditory accompaniment this morning, Mr. Haredale?” came a voice from the corner of the room, where Dr. Auricle’s form had materialized beside the antique upright piano. The good doctor – a figment of Edwin’s imagination, manifested from his tinnitus-addled mind in the form of a Victorian physician complete with waistcoat, pocket watch, and an air of insufferable confidence – adjusted his spectacles and consulted an imaginary notebook.
“I believe the high C-sharp is particularly persistent today, with an underlying drone in B-flat. Most fascinating. Have you tried the electromagnetic pulse therapy I prescribed? No? Perhaps the beetroot and vinegar tonic?”
“Enough,” Edwin growled, waving a dismissive hand through the hallucination, which obligingly dissipated like morning mist. “There is work to be done.”
And indeed there was, for this particular Tuesday in May of 2025 marked an occasion of some significance. After three years of silence, outward silence, at least, for his internal world had never known a moment’s peace, Edwin Haredale was to record again.
The electronic communication had arrived the previous evening, its blue light piercing the gloom of his customary solitude. A documentarian, one Felicity Morgan by name, sought to chronicle the rise and fall and, perhaps, the resurrection of The Midnight Ramblers, that ensemble whose melodies had formed the soundtrack to many a youth’s journey into adulthood at the turn of the millennium.
“A fool’s errand,” Edwin had muttered upon first reading the message. Yet something within him, some spark not yet extinguished by the constant, keening Whispering Chorus, had prompted him to respond in the affirmative.
And so it was that the dust covers had been removed from long-dormant equipment and preparations made for the capture of sound, an irony not lost on a man whose world was already overfull with sounds that none but he could hear.
The doorbell’s chime, as antiquated as the building itself, roused Edwin from his contemplation. With a sigh that carried the weight of expectations both dreaded and secretly harbored, he moved to admit the first of the day’s visitors into his sanctuary of sound and silence.
“A Visitation of Souls Both Corporeal and Ethereal”
“Faces from shadows emerge, each bearing the countenance of melodies past; some sweet as summer rain, others discordant as winter’s wrath upon naked branches.” — From “The Invisible Symphony” by Edwin Haredale
Mrs. Maybell, that most solicitous of landladies, was first to cross the threshold, bearing in her arms a basket containing what appeared to be an assortment of comestibles and, judging by the protruding neck of a bottle, perhaps something of a more spirituous nature.
“Good morning, Mr. Haredale,” she announced with a brightness that seemed to Edwin almost offensive in its intensity. At seventy-two years of age, Mrs. Maybell had seen the passage of innumerable tenants through the various spaces of the building she had inherited from her late husband. None, however, had captured her maternal concern quite like the musician who occupied the topmost floor.
“I’ve brought you some nourishment, as I suspect you’ll be forgetting to eat with all this… what do you call it? ‘Dropping tracks’? ‘Spinning discs’?” Her face, round and perpetually flushed like an overripe apple, creased with the effort of recalling contemporary musical vernacular.
“Recording, Mrs. Maybell. Simply ‘recording’,” Edwin corrected with a patience born of long practice.
“Well, whatever the young people are calling it these days.” She deposited her burden upon a table already overburdened with cables, effect pedals, and the scattered remains of compositions abandoned mid-creation. “There’s cold meats and cheese, a loaf from the artisanal bakery on the corner—they do that sourdough you like—and a bottle of the red from Portugal. For medicinal purposes, of course.”
The “young people” to whom Mrs. Maybell referred were, in fact, now well into middle age themselves, a fact that might have amused Edwin had his attention not been diverted by the sudden appearance of another spectral visitor from his internal Whispering Chorus.
Standing now beside Mrs. Maybell was the translucent figure of Frederick Tympani, once the drummer of The Midnight Ramblers, appearing to Edwin’s mind’s eye not as he would surely look today, but as he had in the height of their fame, young, vibrant, with that perpetual half-smile that had so endeared him to their feminine admirers.
“She fancies you, old man,” the apparition observed with a spectral wink. “Always has. Might do you good to notice a flesh-and-blood woman for once, instead of us ghosts.”
Edwin made a dismissive gesture, which Mrs. Maybell mistook as directed toward her offerings.
“If you don’t care for the wine, I can send my grandson to fetch something else. Tiny Tim is just downstairs, tinkering with those electronic contraptions of his.”
“The wine is perfectly adequate, thank you,” Edwin hastened to assure her. “And yes, I should be most grateful if young Tim would lend his expertise today. The digital interfaces and I maintain a relationship of mutual suspicion at the best of times.”
Mrs. Maybell beamed with grandmotherly pride. “He’ll be thrilled! The boy speaks of you as though you were some sort of deity of the musical realm. All his followers on that video platform thing are quite envious of his connection to The Midnight Ramblers.”
As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, the studio door burst open to admit Timothy, known universally as “Tiny Tim” despite his considerable height of six feet, a youth of nineteen with hair dyed an electric blue and attired in garments that appeared to have been selected in the dark from the reject pile of a theatrical costume department.
“Yo, Mr. H! The vibes are immaculate today, no cap!” the young man exclaimed, executing a complex handshake with the air before realizing that Edwin remained, as ever, a non-participant in such modern salutations. “Got the notification you were finally laying down some heat. Absolutely based decision!”
Edwin regarded the boy with a mixture of fondness and bewilderment. “I confess, young Timothy, that while I recognize each individual word you utter, their arrangement into sentences presents a puzzle beyond my solving.”
Tim grinned, the light catching on the metallic stud in his lower lip. “Just saying it’s dope you’re making music again. The interwebs are buzzing. Your Spotify streams are already up three hundred percent since the documentary got announced.”
The spectral Frederick Tympani drifted toward the newcomer, passing through a vintage amplifier stack and causing a momentary burst of feedback that only Edwin could hear. “The boy has your old energy, Eddie. Remember when we cared about listener numbers and chart positions?”
“I care now only for the integrity of the creation,” Edwin muttered, addressing the phantom but causing both Mrs. Maybell and Tiny Tim to exchange glances of concern.
“Quite right, dear,” Mrs. Maybell soothed, patting his arm. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your… recording. Do try to eat something between your… tracks.” With that, she took her leave, the scent of lavender water lingering in her wake.
No sooner had the door closed behind her than it opened again to admit a slender figure in a dress of emerald green, her auburn hair cascading in natural waves about a face of striking symmetry. Clara Nightingale, twenty-six years of age and possessed of a vocal instrument that could shatter glass or hearts with equal facility, entered the studio with a confidence that her youth should have precluded.
“Edwin! The prodigal guitarist emerges from exile.” Her voice, even in ordinary speech, carried the resonance of her considerable talent. “I came as soon as Tim’s livestream announced you were recording today.”
“Livestream?” Edwin turned an accusatory gaze upon Tiny Tim, who had the good grace to adopt an expression of contrition.
“Just to my core followers, Mr. H. Only like, thirty thousand people. Totally intimate gathering.”
Edwin’s exasperation found voice in a sigh that seemed drawn from the very depths of his tall frame. “I had hoped for a somewhat less… public return to the craft.”
Clara moved with practiced grace to the grand piano that occupied the center of the room, trailing her fingers across its polished surface. “The world has missed your music, Edwin. Myself included.”
“The world has an abundance of musicians to fill its ears,” Edwin replied, seating himself upon a high stool beside a workbench littered with guitar picks, string packets, and the disassembled components of effects pedals. “It is my ears that have become overfull.”
Clara’s expression softened with understanding. “The tinnitus. Is it very bad today?”
Before Edwin could respond, the door admitted yet another visitor, this one arriving without the courtesy of a preceding knock. Bartholomew Sharps, music publisher and self-proclaimed “discoverer” of The Midnight Ramblers, strode into the studio with the air of a man entering his own domain. At sixty-three years of age, Sharps maintained the lean hunger of a predator eternally on the prowl for fresh talent to exploit.
“Haredale! The industry’s most reclusive genius finally deigns to rejoin the land of the commercially viable!” Sharps extended a hand adorned with rings marking various achievements in the music business, platinum and gold sales, industry awards, all worn as a warrior might display battle trophies.
Edwin regarded the outstretched hand as one might observe a particularly venomous serpent. “Bartholomew. I don’t recall extending an invitation.”
“Don’t need one, old friend. I still own forty-nine percent of this studio, or had that detail escaped your memory along with your public profile?” Sharps withdrew the unshaken hand without apparent offense. “Besides, I bring news. Your catalog streams have tripled since word got out about the documentary. The algorithm loves a comeback story.”
Edwin’s expression darkened like a thundercloud. “This is not a ‘comeback,’ as you term it. It is a private recording session that has apparently, thanks to young Timothy’s digital indiscretion, become a public spectacle.”
The Whispering Chorus chose this moment to surge in volume, bringing with it new apparitions—faces from Edwin’s past, bandmates, lovers, critics, all speaking at once in a cacophony that threatened to overwhelm his tenuous composure.
“Perhaps,” Clara interjected, noting the sudden pallor of Edwin’s countenance, “we might focus on the music itself? I’ve been practicing the harmonies for ‘Midnight’s Shadow,’ just as we discussed.”
Edwin clung to her words like a drowning man to driftwood. “Yes… the music. That is why we have gathered, is it not? Timothy, if you would be so kind as to prepare the recording apparatus. Clara, take your position by the microphone. And Bartholomew…” He fixed the publisher with a stare of glacial intensity. “You may observe in silence, or not at all.”
As they moved to their assigned stations, Edwin reached for the Gibson Les Paul that had been his primary instrument during the band’s ascendancy. Its weight, familiar yet somehow alien after the long hiatus, settled against him like the return of a once-close friend now grown distant through separation.
The Whispering Chorus surged once more, but as his fingers found their position upon the fretboard, a curious thing occurred—the phantoms began to retreat, as if repelled by the tangible reality of music about to be born.
“The Symphony of Silence Broken”
“Through persistent phantoms of sound, the true music waits; patient as stone, eternal as the stars, ready for the moment when silence and noise find their perfect equilibrium in the heart of creation.” — From “The Invisible Symphony” by Edwin Haredale
There exists a moment, known intimately to all who have ever stood before an audience or a recording device with instrument in hand, when time itself seems to hold its breath in anticipation. It is a moment of pure potentiality, when all that has been, and all that might yet be, hangs suspended in perfect balance upon the precipice of expression.
Such a moment now engulfed the occupants of Edwin Haredale’s studio as his fingers hovered above the strings of his guitar, poised to break a silence of three years’ duration. A silence that, for him alone, had been filled with unending noise.
“Rolling in three… two…” Tiny Tim’s voice, suddenly professional, counted down as his fingers danced across the digital interface.
Edwin closed his eyes, and in that self-imposed darkness, he could see them clearly, the Whispering Chorus, arrayed before him like an audience of ghosts. Dr. Auricle stood at their fore, pocket watch in hand, tapping his foot in time to a rhythm only Edwin could hear. Behind him, Frederick Tympani nodded encouragement, spectral drumsticks twirling between incorporeal fingers.
“One…”
The first chord rang out, a minor seventh with a suspended fourth, complex and unresolved, much like the man who had given it voice. Clara’s intake of breath was audible even over the resonance of the guitar, a small gasp of recognition at the return of a sound long missed from the world.
As Edwin’s fingers found their remembered paths across the fretboard, a transformation became apparent to all present. The stoop of his shoulders straightened; the furrow between his brows, etched deep by pain and isolation, softened. Most remarkable of all, a smile, slight but unmistakable, tugged at the corners of his mouth.
For Edwin, an even more profound change was occurring. As the music flowed from his hands, the Whispering Chorus began to alter in nature. The chaotic din that had been his constant torment gradually resolved itself into harmony with the notes he played. The specters, rather than tormenting him with their dissonant presence, now seemed to accompany his music, adding ethereal layers that only he could perceive.
Clara’s voice joined the composition, her perfect pitch finding the melody as if she had been singing it all her life rather than merely rehearsing from Edwin’s fragmentary notations. The lyrics, which had eluded his grasp for so long, now flowed from her lips with a natural grace that made them seem inevitable rather than constructed.
“In the silence between heartbeats, Where hope collides with memory, I found the ghost of who I was, And glimpsed who I might be…”
Even Bartholomew Sharps, that most mercenary of music men, was not immune to the power of the moment. He stood transfixed, his calculating expression momentarily replaced by one of genuine appreciation, perhaps even remembering what had first drawn him to Edwin’s music before commercial considerations had superseded artistic ones.
The recording continued, the minutes stretching into an hour, then two, as song after song emerged, some half-remembered from Edwin’s past, others entirely new, born of his isolation and his struggle with the very condition that had driven him from music.
It was during a brief pause, as Tiny Tim adjusted some esoteric setting on the digital recording apparatus, that Bartholomew approached Edwin with uncharacteristic diffidence.
“I had forgotten,” the publisher admitted, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “In all the business of the industry, I had forgotten what it was like when we first heard you play. Before the charts and the tours and the merchandising.” He extended his hand once more, this time with a different quality to the gesture. “The world needs this music, Edwin. Not for the streams or the revenue, but because it’s bloody good.”
Edwin regarded the man who had once been as much mentor as exploiter. With a nod that acknowledged complexities beyond articulation, he briefly clasped the offered hand. “The world shall have what I choose to give it, Bartholomew. On my terms, this time.”
A commotion at the door heralded the arrival of yet another visitor. Mrs. Maybell ushered in a woman of commanding presence, her silver hair cropped short in a style that suggested practicality over fashion, though it suited her striking features admirably.
“Ms. Morgan from the documentary has arrived,” Mrs. Maybell announced, somewhat unnecessarily as the newcomer had already advanced into the room with hand outstretched.
“Felicity Morgan,” she introduced herself, her grip firm as she shook Edwin’s hand. “I didn’t expect to find a full session in progress. When your landlady’s grandson started trending with livestream snippets of ‘Edwin Haredale’s Triumphant Return,’ I thought I’d better get over here before the rest of the media circus arrives.”
Edwin cast a despairing glance at Tiny Tim, who had the decency to look abashed. “My apologies, Mr. H. The content was just too fire not to share.”
“Is that expression signifying quality?” Edwin inquired with a raised eyebrow.
“It means it’s really good,” Clara translated with a smile. “Which it is.”
Felicity Morgan surveyed the assembled company with the practiced eye of a documentarian accustomed to assessing the dynamics of any situation she entered. “I’m getting excellent material already. The reclusive genius, the opportunistic publisher, the tech-savvy youth connecting old and new. All we need is a tragic backstory and we’ve got ourselves a narrative arc.”
“The tragedy, Ms. Morgan, is ongoing,” Edwin replied, gesturing vaguely toward his ears. “The Whispering Chorus offers no intermission.”
“The tinnitus,” Felicity nodded. “That’s part of what makes your story so compelling, Mr. Haredale. The musician silenced by sound itself. Yet here you are, creating again despite it, or perhaps even because of it?”
Edwin considered this notion. Could it be that the very affliction that had driven him from his art had, through the crucible of suffering, transformed that art into something new?
“I know not whether I create despite the phantom sounds or in conversation with them,” he admitted. “I know only that when I play, they seem less adversaries and more… collaborators, however unwelcome their initial intrusion.”
As if to illustrate his point, the spectral Dr. Auricle appeared beside Felicity Morgan (invisible to all save Edwin) and made a note in his phantom ledger. “Most fascinating development in the patient’s condition. Music as both cause and cure. Perhaps a new avenue of treatment?”
“Shall we continue the recording?” Clara suggested, sensing Edwin’s discomfort with the direction of the conversation. “We’ve only just begun to capture what you’ve been writing these past years.”
“Indeed,” Edwin agreed, returning to his position before the microphone. “If our audience—both corporeal and digital—would permit us to proceed.”
As Tiny Tim counted them in once more, Edwin felt a curious sensation. A lightness, as if some portion of the burden he had carried these three years had been, if not removed, then at least redistributed to more bearable proportions.
The Whispering Chorus remained, as he knew it always would. The tinnitus was not a villain to be vanquished but a condition to be accommodated, a phantom companion for his remaining days. Yet in returning to music, in allowing the external expression of melody to converse with the internal discord, he had found not a cure, but perhaps something equally valuable—a purpose.
As the final notes of the session faded into the attentive silence of the studio, Edwin Haredale lifted his gaze to the assembled company, friends old and new, colleagues, witnesses to this small resurrection, and offered them a genuine smile.
“I believe,” he said with the quiet assurance of one who has rediscovered a fundamental truth long obscured, “that we may have something worth hearing.”