Ukulele Horror Story for Halloween

Martinlover

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It’s that time of year to gather ‘round the campfire for the telling of a few ukulele horror stories. Here’s one I have dared not speak of—ever—till now. Prepare yourself for this spine-tingling tale.

Many years ago—before I knew anything about playing ukuleles—when my daughter was in 5th grade, a neighbor’s child moved to another state and left a ukulele at our house. We tried to return it but the family said keep it. The ukulele was old and plain. It sat in its chipboard case on a shelf in the closet. After about 6 or 8 months my daughter asked if she could use it for an art project. I said, sure.

Forgive me powers that be, I knew not what I was doing.

Oh, dear, not sure I can go on with this story! Let me compose myself...this next part gets pretty graphic...

Unceremoniously my daughter smashed the ukulele! She attached the ukulele neck (fretboard) and headstock to the top of a sculpted head. She painted the whole thing green and put ‘vines and leaves’ on it. A friend bought the piece and hung it up in his studio.

Flash forward 10+ years, I discovered the joy of ukulele. I also along the way discovered vintage ukuleles. I was suddenly haunted by the ukulele. What was it? A Harmony, a Martin, a Schmeck? While I believe it wasn’t a Martin 5K, I am not sure what it was. But I would probably know by the shape of the headstock. But ever since then, I have been afraid to visit the friend who bought the art piece to find out.

What’s your ukulele horror story?
 
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One dark, chilly, blustery October night a man returned home a little late from work. As he entered the kitchen, his wife noticed he was smiling broadly and holding his hands behind his back. She smiled broadly in return: "You've brought me flowers?"

"No, Dear, it's my new ukulele," and he unveiled his acquisition, an apple green Kala Waterman. "I won it at our company meeting."

"You're not seriously going to learn to play that thing, are you?"

"Yes, I think I am," he replied, a bit miffed at her unsupportive reaction, "you just wait."

And wait she did. Day after day, week after week, he became more and more obsessed with playing chords and butchering every song they'd ever known. She tried earplugs, then ear muffs, then noise-cancelling headphones designed for jet fighter pilots. Finally she stuffed coffee grounds in her ears, which finally made her go deaf. But by now the sound was etched in her brain, so that the mere sight of her husband with the green uke brought to mind that ghastly sound, reverberating around her head in Brownian motion, impossible to escape.

She pled and pled for him to stop, but he would just say, "I've almost got it, you'll see. You just wait."

And wait she tried. But she'd reached her limit, and in the middle of a particularly out-of-tune rendering of "Ain't She Sweet," his sweetness grabbed the Waterman out of his hands and brought it down hard on his head, shattering the instrument into as many glistening green shards as a Waterman can break into.

Muntley stared at her dumbly, eyes wide with astonishment. She hollered, "Now will you stop!" Still dazed, not in full control of his faculties and discernment, he uttered those fateful words: "I can buy another tomorrow." Frustration gripped her, she wrapped a broken string around his neck and throttled him, nearly severing his head from his body like a cheese slicer.

The paramedics found her huddled glassy-eyed drawing pictures in the thickening pools of blood with green shards, softly intoning, "Ain't she sweet, just a-comin' down the street…"

The jury of course found her not guilty, citing temporary insanity, mental anguish, self-defense, and justifiable homicide. The psychiatrists prescribed a rest cure, and arranged for her a world cruise. In time, her mood began to lift, her shock and grief were displaced by swimming, reading, sight-seeing, socializing, shuffleboard and heavy drinking. She returned home somewhat revitalized.

But the story doesn't end there, for the spirit of Muntley was not at rest. At first, she would just catch flashes of apple green from the corners of her eyes, or the sound of a strum coming seemingly up the heating duct. When she did housework, she might hear "When I'm cleaning windows..." At night, these impressions grew more intense. The visitations became more frequent, the sounds in her head louder. And he would whisper to her: "You see, Dear, I've almost got it down."

One spring morning, just after a rain, she opened the balcony windows to the fresh breeze and caught sight of a double rainbow. Then she heard it: "Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo ... Somewhere over the rainbow...." Muntley's specter materialized before her with his ghostly green ukulele, smiling a smile that only the truly sadistic can manage. She leapt over the balcony railing and dove head-first onto the garden gnome. With him she found peace at last.

But if you're out at twilight in the village of Long Tootling, you just might catch an occasional flash of green where green ought not to be, and perhaps the sound of a strum on the wind, but most unsettling of all, as you walk up a garden path, you might hear a thin voice quavering in falsetto, "Tip-toe through the tulips..."

I LOVE it. Are you a writer?
 
I have secretly always wanted to smash a ukulele, a la Pete Townshend.
 
Ubulele, you win the literary prize for best ukulele horror short story. Well done.
 
While I know it wasn’t a Martin 5K, I am not sure what it was. And ever since then, I have been afraid to visit the friend who bought the art piece to find out.

You have to find out what kind of uke that was. For better or for worse. If it was a Martin 5K, that would be a genuine horror story.
 
This is weird, someone posted a story but now it’s gone. Surely there must be more tales from the ukulele crypt.
 
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