No One Can Hear You Scream

Someone appears to have been axe-murdered in one of the fifth-floor practice rooms of the UT Music Building.

Or perhaps some hapless singer tried applying a long-unused, slightly scratchy throat and a mezzo range* to a bit of light Schubert, and her lungs forcibly ejected themselves against the wall in protest. Stranger things have happened. Or the music-college legend about razor blades planted between the keys might have played out in real life. Or someone was practicing the bombarde with such gusto that the piano student in the next cubicle had no choice but to slice him to death with his own sheet music, which I think is perfectly understandable, and if you've ever heard anyone play the bombarde you will probably agree.

Whatever made it, it's a little unnerving to sit in a tiny, airtight, soundproofed room, in a mostly empty building, with a gigantic rust-colored splattery stain on the wall. You never know who or what could be hiding in the piano.

At least it was an upright.

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*My voice has a very nice bottom, but it's a bitch trying to find art songs that fit.