How many more times must I endure this nonsense? As if the music box debacle wasn't enough, I now have another instrument ascended from the fiery pits of hell to torment me. What's at work here is a conspiracy of Dantean proportions.

Last Halloween, to complete my costume as Angus Young, I purchased a bright-red child's guitar. This is the type of device where each fret is a actually button that you press down, and each button plays a note, just like on a keyboard. If you pull the whammy bar, you hear a snarling, Yngwie Malmsteen-type guitar lick. In other words, the guitar required no strumming and, really, no skill whatsoever. This was great, because I only wanted it as a prop, in order to fully emulate that little trademark hop he used to do back in the day. (Perhaps he still does this? I don't know. Truthfully, I never liked AC/DC's music all that well, although I do like the idea of a British band attaining iconic status in beer-guzzling, flag-waving Middle America. They weren't exactly the ambassadors of culture that, say, the Beatles were, but still. Props for "Hell's Bells.") Anyway, it was great fun, the costume was perfect (people I didn't know were shouting "Angus!" from across the street), and later on at the outdoor showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show we attended, I nearly froze my million-dollar legs off in those maroon shorts. Overall, a smashing success.

Flash forward to a few nights ago. I was at home alone, preparing to head off to the gym, when I heard a sound emanating from the office. It took me a second to pinpoint the exact location, and then another second to realize it was that infernal guitar, playing of its own accord (although not "a chord," since the thing was only capable of playing one note at a time.) I slid open the closet door, and sure enough, there was my toy guitar, rockin' out as if Hendrix himself was plucking the strings with his spectral teeth.

I was trying not to freak out (yes, still a fraidy-cat), so I called Nick and held the phone up so he could hear it. I told him it had started on its own, and that I wasn't even in the room when it began.

"Did it fall against something?" he asked.

"Not that I could tell."

"It must be a poltergeist then," he said. I told him to shut up, but I had already started to think the same thing. Now, I've seen Amityville Horror, and finding out that the whole thing was a fraud didn't make the idea of haunted houses any less scary for me. Especially the whole business with the pig and its glowing red eyes. So all of a sudden I was thinking about that movie, while the rogue guitar played maniacally in the background, providing its own spooky soundtrack. It even crossed my mind that someone might have been murdered in our apartment. "Well, I'm taking the batteries out at any rate," I said as calmly as I could. By this time, though, Nick had picked up on the fact that I was pretty unnerved, and he was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe. He was no help at all.

Just then, the music stopped. I set the guitar on the kitchen counter while I fumbled with the tool kit, trying to find a screwdriver small enough to loosen the battery cover. I tried every single one, but none of them would fit the tiny screw. Meanwhile, the guitar had started playing again, but this time it sounded weirder and more demonic than before. It kept skipping from lick to lick, catching halfway and making a bizarre growling noise before launching into the next one. About the time I was considering setting it outside for some hapless child to find, it abruptly shut off again.

Not sure what else to do, I went ahead to the gym. When I got back, Nick had somehow managed to get the back off. My little guitar looked kind of sad, like a partly dissected cadaver, its batteries spilled out on the counter like black and silver guts.

Even in that condition, though, I half expected it to start playing again.

I don't know why the guitar began playing out of nowhere. Maybe it happened because the batteries were about to die, and this was a sort of swan song, a final grasp at beauty before imminent dissolution. All I know is that it didn't go quietly into that good night. In fact, it was a rather noisy affair when I went all Paul Simonon on it out in the parking lot the next morning.

I think I can honestly say that I've gotten over the anxiety about this incident. It was funny, and I realize that, as always, I overreacted. However, if my old flute starts playing on its own one of these nights, we're moving out of this Burial Ground Apartment Complex faster than you can say shallow grave.