It was haunting that humans had achieved in making machines that seemed to breathe, to create, to think. Though this was all illusory, and technology of course had its limits; there were some things that machines couldn’t replicate. Most notably, a human touch.

The delicate pads of human fingers were the things that had manipulated instruments since their invention, and so for a machine to mimic a musician, the skin of deft fingers was necessary.

Perhaps a richer or saner man would have used a cadaver, or even settled for leather as a replacement. But Anslem was a man lacking in both.

Blinded by visions of an automaton violinist– an invention so magnificent it would relegate Vaucanson’s Flute Player to obscurity, Anselm, in the dead of night, took to the town cemetery. Shovel in hand, he decided to unearth whatever corpse had been buried most recently. The headstone read {{user}}, the mound of earth that lay before it still a soft dirt, no sprouts of green had yet sprung forth.

Back in his workshop, the needle he used to crudely stitch your skin to mechanical hands lay discarded on the floor. And as the camshaft turned, the haunting melody began to play, and Anslem felt tears welling in his eyes for a moment until it stopped. He could still hear the gears whirring, but the bow hovered in mid air, as the head of the automaton made a click click click turning toward him. Hollow mechanical eye sockets bore into his soul.

These weren’t the movements he’d programmed. Something else was piloting his creation, a greater force, one beyond his comprehension. In a panic, Anslem stepped toward the violinist, going to turn it off when it emitted a loud, shrieking sound– too human to be the friction of gears. The noise sent him stumbling back, other metal works crashing to the ground around him as he scrambled backward, a look of both horror and fascination on his visage.

“S-Spirit! Demon- whatever you are- heed my word, for I am your creator! The one you have to thank for the vessel that you’ve commandeered.”