The October Music: Fourth Verse - Day 6

Jungle Drum

            Professor Livingstone had heard all the jokes before, especially given that he had dedicated himself to anthropology. He didn’t mind. He loved his work. That was why, when he got word of the discovery of a lost tribe in the Amazon, he notified his department of his immediate sabbatical. Naturally, it was denied and he spent the next six months fuming.

            However, he ended up sending a basket of fruit to his department chair when the research party that had gone to find the tribe returned at half-strength with tales of cannibalism and ritual sacrifice. They had also returned with a heavy blue stone that the tribe had claimed to have magical properties. The idea was preposterous, of course, but myth and tragedy spread and grow like weeds, even in academia. Before long, the overwhelming belief was that the stone was cursed.

            The hysteria reached a point where universities refused to even have the stone on campus. It was ludicrous and Livingstone flat out volunteered to house the stone and prove the cowards wrong. It was at his office within the week. Whoever had sent it to him had padlocked the damned crate. Livingstone snorted and looked for a bolt cutter.

            Once the crate was open, he looked inside and saw a gauzy white mass about the size of a bowling ball. He reached in and, with a grunt, lifted the object into the air before setting it on his desk and pulling off the covering. The stone was beyond words. The color, a deep indigo, seemed to glow and pulse even in the fluorescent lighting of his office. Whorls and swirls peppered the surface, giving it a textured look that resembled nothing so much as reptile skin. When he touched it directly, the stone felt like ice and he hastily withdrew his hand.

            He must have done so too quickly, he thought, because he could hear the blood in his veins thumping in his ears. Why was he out of breath? Was he sweating? Livingstone blinked and nearly fainted. He was near the front gate of the campus. The gate was three miles away from his office. Had he run here? The thumping in his ears grew louder. It did not sound like blood anymore. It sounded like drums. Tribal drums. Drums of war. Drums coming for him. As fast as he could manage, he made his way back to his office and shut the door. The drums continued. Thump. Thump. Thump. All throughout the night, the thumps continued.

            In the morning, one of the grad students in the department noticed Livingstone’s door was shut, but the light was on and a thumping noise was emanating from within. He opened the door and gasped. Inside, the stone was on the floor and Livingstone’s desk was covered in blood. Sat in his chair, the professor slammed what remained of his face into his desktop.
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            The student, when asked later, said the sound was exactly like that of a bass drum.