The shadows in the bar seem to shift, to grow darker. They begin to stretch and crawl, each splitting into strands no thicker than a strand of hair, a thousand thousand tiny worms of darkness, crawling across the tables and chairs and floor and ceiling and walls, crawling across even the patrons. There's a sense of light, of hope, from some of these, but that sense is quickly smothered by the crushing darkness, by the despair that these ever-darkening shadows seem to radiate. Behind those that leave, the original shadows of objects and patrons alike seem to re-form, but there are a few moments in which nothing is casting a shadow at all.
It becomes clear that the shadows are all crawling towards the same thing... towards the piano, in fact. As they slowly make their way to the piano, they begin to pile up, one on top of the other, until they've formed a shape... a vague, transparent shape, sitting at the stool, hands on the keys. It might be human, but it's hard enough to make out that there's no way to be sure. Its thoughts, its soul, are an endless cacophony of screams of pain and cries for help and moans of despair, but no sound can be heard from it. In fact, it seems to have dampened even the normal sounds of this quiet little bar, and the silence it brings with it is deafening. It's as though the very air itself has dropped ten degrees. Is that a smirk on the face of the bartender? No... no, his face remains as impassive as ever.
The shadow slowly, slowly solidifies, gains form. It is still transparent, but it is now possible to make out what this thing looks like. It might be a representation of a human, if one had never seen a human. Its short, egg-shaped body sprouts two spidery legs, too thin to be real, and two arms to match. Its spindly neck supports a head that's too large for its body, almost perfectly spherical. Its nose is too long and pointed, its mouth is too large, and its huge eyes are too green, but that face might still be that of a young boy. Atop its head sits a perfectly-groomed shock of reddish-brown hair, mostly covered by a brown newsboy cap. It wears what might be an old-time school uniform-- black dress shorts, and a white shirt with a black tie, topped off by a maroon vest. Its polished brown shoes are complimented by green socks that stretch up past its bony knees.
As its appearance solidifies, noises become audible as well. There is the piano, playing the same haunting, beautiful melody that Ike had played. There is also the thing's voice. It is a man's voice, deep and operatic and perfectly in harmony with the piano, navigating a complicated countermelody in a language that none of the bar's patrons have ever heard, words that even the bar seems unable or unwilling to translate. One repeated word stands out, however; "Venvolar." These sounds fade in from a whisper, ever-increasing towards their full volume.
The instant the thing's appearance is fully solidified, it leaps back from the piano with a yelp, falling on its back and taking the piano's stool with it. Though its singing and playing stop, it's almost as though they've continued for a moment even after its hands have left the keys. But that must just be the patrons' imaginations playing tricks, right?
The thing props itself up on its elbows, staring at the piano from its back. In the voice of a boy of perhaps ten or twelve, it says, clearly, "It bit us, Genwa!"
