In his car on the way back to work, David called Sheila. She answered with an eager "well, what do you think?"
"I think he's got some severe problems. He thinks his guitar talks to him. Oh, and it can play by itself."
"He hasn't told me that. Are you sure?"
"That's what he said."
"He's starting to frighten me. And you should see this guitar he has. It's a horror." And she described the etching to him. "He had it hanging on the wall but I made him take it down. Thank God he travels with it, because, frankly, it gives me the willies being alone with it. I can hear him sitting downstairs in the living room playing that thing, playing this really weird music softly, so he won't wake me up. But I do wake up. Last night, I snuck to the top of the stairs, and I could hear him singing or whispering or something. It didn't even sound like him."
"That's the guitar, Sheel. It whispers to him."
"What does it whisper to him?"
"Well, for one thing it told Mikey you're having an affair."
The other end was dead air, and Dave said "Sheila?"
"Yeah. I'm here. That's scary."
"Scared the hell out of me. At least it didn't say you're having it with me."
"Oh my God. What are we going to do?"
"Are you at home? He's not around is he?"
"He's inside taking a nap. I'm sitting in the car."
"Two things, Sheel. We've got to cool our jets for a while."
"OK. That will be hard, but ok."
"And you need to get him some professional help, Sheila. He's sick."
"Do you think I'm in any danger, David?"
"No. Christ, I hope not. I've known Michael since college, and he's always been a gentle guy. But the guy I had lunch with was different. Look, just be careful and let me know if things get worse. And delete your cell phone history. We don't need him knowing we're talking."
She went into the house. Michael was asleep on the couch in the rec room, snoring softly. The black guitar was on a stand by the coffee table. She suddenly shivered as she looked at it. Quietly, she opened the closet door and picked up the guitar to place it inside. Suddenly, she felt a sharp stab in her finger. The guitar struck the floor with a sound like a bell chiming as she cried out and brought her hand up to her eyes, the blood a thick red bubble on her forefinger.
"What the goddamn hell do you think you're doing?" Michael shouted, and he rushed to the guitar, examining it, his face a grotesque scowl. "The string stuck me!" She shouted back. "I'm bleeding, if you're interested." He snapped the guitar into its case. "At least the guitar's alright," he said and gave her a cruel grin. "You got what you deserved."