Ο Τροβαδούρος του Διαβόλου Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

Death did not carry him beyond the prairie. Whether it was the injustice of his murder or the final song left unfinished, something refused to rest beneath the pine box. On the seventh night after his burial, the earth above his grave split open without a sound. The casket was empty by sunrise, save for a broken guitar string curled like a noose. He returned not as a man, but as a wandering shade draped in dust and moonlight. His face remained youthful, though pale as weathered bone, and the painted devil horns he once wore in jest had become part of his spectral form. His boots left no tracks, yet every lonely street seemed to know his footsteps. Those doomed to cross his path never saw him first—they heard him. A slow, mournful guitar drifted through the darkness, every note cold enough to still the wind. The melody wrapped around a listener's heart like barbed wire, stirring memories of loved ones lost, promises broken, and graves left unattended. Against all reason, travelers would abandon the safety of lantern-lit roads and follow the haunting tune into empty alleys, forgotten graveyards, or the endless prairie beyond town. There, beneath the pale glow of the moon, the musician would finally appear, seated upon an old pine casket with his battered guitar resting across his knees. He never spoke. He simply finished the song that death had interrupted. When the final note faded, the victim found themselves unable to move, as though the music itself had rooted them to the earth. The ghost would rise, his hollow gaze fixed upon them, and the night would swallow both musician and listener alike. By dawn, only a few fresh bootprints remained, leading away from town toward the lonely prairie... where, if the wind was just right, another sorrowful guitar tune had already begun.