I had just moved into a small, bleak farmhouse on the west side of Georgia. It was a nice little place that sat next to a small, sad little town. I remember the day. The day that I found the most beautiful guitar I've ever seen.

"OK Mark, that's the last of 'em," said a plump moving man that my mother had recruited to help me move in.

"Thanks Jimmy!" I gave him a five dollar bill as he walked out the door, porch steps screeching behind him.

"Oh by the way," Jimmy said, "I found a massive box in the basement. I didn't know if you wanted me to bring it up or not."

"That's fine. I'll get it," I said. He walked out the door and into the moving van that he barely fit in. I liked old Jimmy.


As he left I waltzed into the basement.

There sat a large box. It was almost as tall as I was, so about 6'5. I whipped out my switchblade-- God, I loved that thing-- and sliced open the box. I peeked into the box. It smelled musty and was packed full of moldy linen. I uncovered the cloth and marveled at what I saw. It was a sleek, midnight-black acoustic guitar. The date read 1923. I was familiar with guitars, mostly electric, but I knew pretty much anything you would want to know about them. This one, though, perplexed me.

It was beautiful, and it looked like it had just come out of the factory. There was no brand name and I couldn't distinguish it by its style. I gently picked it up, carefully because of its age. To my surprise it was incredibly smooth and showed no sign of age.

I played a single note on the E string. It sounded better than God's heavenly chorus itself. I brought it to my room, leaned it against the wall, and went to bed.

I had a dream of the guitar that night. It was on fire and a red indistinct figure was playing it. I recognized the music. The Delta Blues.

When I awoke I immediately went to pick up the guitar. I noticed a small engraving on the back of one of the tuning pegs. "Jennifer". I curiously tried to turn one of the pegs. The peg turned, but the sound did not change. I figured it was broken. I went on playing the guitar.

It was beautiful and amazing. There was no other way to describe it. I finally had to go to work, so I got off my lazy butt and drove my old junker of a car to McDonald's (don't get the wrong idea, it was a summer job).

I worked, same as usual; I went home, played the guitar, showered, and played the guitar some more. Any second I had I played the elegant beauty of an instrument. The next few days followed the same way, but about the fifth day of living in the new house things were getting strange. I began to have strong urges to play the guitar. It kept me from sleeping and when I did sleep I dreamt about it.

Later I started... 'sleep-playing', I guess you would call it. I would wake up at around three, guitar in hand. I couldn't take it any more. I attempted to burn it. It didn't work. This is when I started to get really scared.

I took the guitar to a medium, but she yelled and told me to get out of her building with that filthy beast. This is my last resort. Writing to all of you. I know it can't help, but I'm deeply scared. I don't ask for pity, I ask for closure from Satan, and from Jennifer.

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