The event was larger than I’d anticipated. Close to a hundred people filled the small University hall, half a dozen or so waitstaff tending to the crowd. Across the other end of the room I saw Chelsea getting balls deep into yet another white wine spritzer. Old stone walls lent the whole affair a grandiose atmosphere and spine-breaking acoustics. Every word became a warcry, every whisper a scream.
The main man, Doctor Sullivan Griever himself, occasionally appeared from a dark corner and borrowed the ear of one of his favoured guests: friends from the physics department, sponsors of his research, patrons of his unusual musical experiments.
It was an odd thing, the way Sullivan would translate pulses of light from far off nebulae into musical notation and combine it with deep-sea calls from unidentified species. The music of the unreachable places, he called it. Some people liked it, I suppose.
Elton sidled up to me, beer in one hand and spectacles in the other. ‘What do you think the big reveal will be?’ he asked, neatly side-stepping basic pleasantries. I appreciated that about him.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Probably some more of that music he does. I imagine he found a particularly noisy star cluster or a talkative squid, or something.’ In truth, I could barely muster the thinnest facade of interest in the event. My attendance was motivated purely by guilt. I’d received a letter the day previous, telling me that Sullivan was on his way out whether he realised it or not, and I’d be replacing him as the head of the astrophysics department. His chief source of funding, a group of old-fashioned would-be gentleman scientists called the Bayemont Society, had chosen to put their cash and influence behind a less frivolous soul. This event would likely be the last hurrah for dear doctor Griever. I just wished he’d hurry the fuck up, frankly. I was missing Married at First Sight for the event, and my wife Sarah was likely to be upset at me for days over it.
Elton and I were brushed aside as a grad student named Gully Novaro passed, carrying a wooden panel with the help of another young man whose name I believe was TJ—so hard to remember them all now.
We slid noiselessly across uneven stones and found a perch by a statue of some significant figure from the 17th century and watched as the two PhD candidates assembled a stage along one of the long sides of the hall. Their movements were slick, practised. I found myself ever more sure of the decision to remove Griever—if he was using students to regularly help him host his events rather than supporting their studies as he should, then he definitely needed to go.
Within a few short minutes, the stage was assembled and Doctor Sullivan stepped upon it, the mob of intellectuals around him reaching something close to silence by unspoken consensus.
The Doctor cleared his throat and spoke, a frantic ripple in his voice. ‘Guests, friends, colleagues. Thank you for coming!’ he said. Behind him, the PhD candidates set up an array of arcane speakers, odd vintage things with tubes and wood panelling. Sullivan continued, ‘as many of you know, I have a little side project, informed by my work in the astrophysics department. Today, I present to you my magnum opus!’
Elton nudged me and gestured to the doors. I looked, saw that the waitstaff were locking them. I raised an eyebrow and shrugged at my companion.
Griever’s borderline-raving continued. ‘As my colleagues in the department will no doubt be aware, the Bayemont Society have lent us the use of one of their radio telescopes. We recently pointed it at a recently discovered cluster of stars farther away than any we’ve yet analysed, at the furthest reaches of the spiral arm of our galaxy. My friends, the signal we received has shattered every idea we had about the nature of our universe!’
‘I think it’s time to leave,’ I muttered. Elton nodded at the edge of my peripheral vision. Neither of us wanted to watch a man who could, on a good day, be considered our friend collapse into madness. Cosmic pareidolia. Whatever was going on. We moved for the exit, at which stood a particularly sizeable waiter. ‘Excuse me, I’ll need you to open the door,’ I said.
The waiter appeared not to notice.
Elton and I exchanged glances. Elton’s face reflected the twinge of panic I felt. He cleared his throat and turned towards the stage. ‘Doctor Griever, why won’t they let us out?’ he called loudly.
Sullivan fixed his blood-shot eyes on us. Or almost. His pupils danced left and right, a nystagmatic motion devoid of lucidity. ‘You have to hear it,’ he said, almost in a whisper. Then he shouted it. ‘YOU HAVE TO HEAR IT! CLEARER THAN WORDS, ELTON!’
With that, he stepped backwards and pulled the power lever for the strange set-up his assistants had assembled.
For a blessed second, nothing happened.
And then, a low hum.
It slowly built, slowly grew deep and rhythmically waved. At points in the cycle of frequencies, the wooden furniture in room shook. Then the glass of the windows. And then the stone.
Panic spread throughout the mob as centuries-old walls began to shed loose stone. Sullivan stood in the middle of it all, among his strange speakers, arms raised like some twisted interpretation of the crucifixion. The force of the ever-rising sounds behind him buffeted his body, bunched and spread his skin in turn.
The sound became unbearable. Windows shattered, the youngest among us collapsed with bleeding ears. I knew I’d follow before long. Elton tapped my shoulder, tried to shout something. Totally inaudible. He pointed at the now-collapsed waiter by the door, which was being pounded on by half a dozen University staffers. He was curled up in the foetal position, cradling his head. I couldn’t blame him.
Elton crouched next to him, searched his pockets. Within seconds he stood triumphant, holding a huge brass key.
The key, of course, shattered. Another victim of whatever blasted frequency tore through us.
Wide-eyed, I turned to look at Griever. He was on his knees, mad glee on his face and blood dripping from his eyes, nose, and ears. He reached his hand towards a dial—a dial which proved to be the master volume control when he turned it to its end.
It was unbearable. I felt my eardrums tear, watched the world shake out of control. Was it the building itself? My eyes? Both?
I collapsed to the ground. Next to me, Elton crumpled. He foamed at the mouth and spasmed on the floor. All around me, similar scenes occured. Limbs shook hard enough to break the bones within, walls collapsed and crushed mewling academics with man-sized fragments of stone.
It might have been seconds or hours before the power—and thus the sound—went out. By that point, I’d lost touch with the world. I saw nothing, felt nothing, heard only the sound.
Even now, it’s all I hear. Seven of us survived, the others hear it too. Griever, for all his madness, was right. It is clearer than words, once the rest of the noise fades away and leaves you only with the music of the unreachable places.
It doesn’t just speak, it sings. Whatever it is in that far away cluster of stars, it has a message. Sullivan tried to deliver it. He came close. Now, I sit here, devoid of auditory distractions, and hold in my hands the letter from the Bayemont society promising me the means to finish the job.