“Why do you play your song?” I asked the old man.
“Somebody has to keep the demons at bay.” He nodded at the guitar beside me. “You can take over for awhile if you’d like.”
I laughed, thought I’d humor him. I picked up the instrument and strummed a few chords of his song. He stood up and walked away without another word.
I tried to put the guitar down, figuring I’d take my chances with his demons, but my hands seem to have gained a mind of their own.
It’s been three cursed days since I’ve seen the old bastard.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers. Go forth, minions, and read the many other interpretations of the prompt.