The Vesper Strings
"The strings remember songs that were never written." Dr. Isadora Thorne, Ethnomusicologist
Beneath the gallery’s amber sconces, the medieval lute lies ensconced within its climate-controlled case, a dormant relic whispering of forgotten eras. Moonlight seeps through towering museum windows, tracing silver filigrees along the instrument’s polished wood—a carved rosette of swirling patterns wrought not from bone but fine metalwork that pulses faintly with spectral luminescence.
Yet what captivates and unsettles scholars alike is the lute’s sixth string: a slender strand of silver wire predating the instrument by three centuries. Metallurgical analyses reveal alloys unknown to medieval smiths; radiometric tests confirm that this wire existed long before the timber was hewn. Intriguingly, this string vibrates unaided, emitting notes imperceptible except to the most sensitive acoustic devices.
In Prague’s labyrinthine Malá Strana district, during a merciless winter in 2019, street mage Celestyn Varga first encountered this extraordinary artifact. While performing humble card tricks near Charles Bridge, an ornate case appeared inexplicably in an abandoned doorway—frosted over yet humming with an unearthly resonance that pierced his very teeth.
Celestyn’s modest illusions blossomed overnight into feats borderlining the miraculous: cards transformed into prophetic ravens crooning in dead tongues; coins multiplied into torrents of silver vanishing come dawn. No longer shielded by anonymity in a world wary of true magic, his fame swelled as viral videos captured phenomena defying reason.
The lute demanded gatherings at midnight crossroads where Prague’s ancient ley lines converge—each haunting concert summoning translucent spirits of plague-ravaged souls who swayed to melodies outside mortal tradition. From its carved motifs crept tears of quicksilver weeping down its surface, staining it forever with shimmering trails.
Authorities probed reports of supernatural disturbances but discovered only Celestyn’s empty street corner and witnesses describing music that stirred religious ecstasy. Surveillance footage revealed vacant intersections alive with dancing shadows moving silently in accord with sounds no ear could hear.
The lute’s darker nature emerged fully on Easter Sunday: from a hidden balcony above Old Town Square, Celestyn played as all city bells tolled death knells simultaneously. Thousands fell into cataleptic trances—their eyes reflecting moonlight amid noon sun—as flawless medieval hymns filled the air.
Celestyn vanished without trace that afternoon, leaving behind only the lute and a journal chronicling his unraveling self—his final words confessing his soul had become “an echo of strings predating creation itself.”
Ravensfield acquired the instrument through Cordelia Blackthorne, whose dealings with Prague police followed an occult consultant's verdict deeming it “too dangerous for standard evidence custody.” She quietly attests to prophetic dreams haunting her sleep for months thereafter.
Today visitors often speak of phantom melodies trailing them home—ghost harmonies seeming born within their bones. The museum’s security systems frequently record vibrations matching those impossible frequencies penetrating even solid matter; maintenance crews refuse night shifts guarding the medieval wing altogether.
