We walked together into the nave of the chapel. The organ sat in a recessed part of the wall off to the left of the pulpit. The brass pipes ran almost to the ceiling, and the whole thing was much larger than the one I had been practicing with in my visions. The minister reached around back, turned on the electric air compressor and pulled the maroon colored vinyl cover off the keys and levers. The levers were similar to the ones I was used to only labeled in English. He folded the cover and sarcastically motioned for me to sit down and begin.

The first attempts were awkward, difficult and short. I could get out only a few notes before the discords began to pile up, forcing me to stop. 'It should be easier than this,' I thought. I made more attempts but could never manage to get more than a few bars into any of the songs I thought I knew. I looked over at the minister. His expression was completely blank. I turned back to the keyboard and tried again, this time determined to play through the dissonance. I hit a particularly sour note early in the second bar and closed my eyes in a wince. Eyes still closed, the next three notes came perfectly and by the time I had played a dozen more I was in a spell, watching my unseen actor play the notes. There had been only a handful of missed notes by the time we had finished the song. I opened my eyes as I held the last note and looked again at the minister. Stunned, his mouth hung open like an idiot. His eyes were focused on my hands and stayed there until I asked him if I could practice again next week.

When I returned home I knew immediately that the minister had spoken with my mother over the telephone. She said he'd asked if I'd ever played before. I explained to her that I'd wanted to practice for some time now and that I probably didn't play as well as he had said.

Within weeks my hands ran nimbly over the keys as beautiful East European Gothic hymns sang from the tall polished pipes. I found I knew eighteen songs total and while all were religious in nature, they were ill-suited to Minnesota Lutheranism. The minister was impressed by the gift the Holy Spirit had imparted on me, but was disappointed that it hadn't shown me anything more traditional. He stopped my sessions in the end, but by that time it didn't matter, my first attempt at manifesting one of this other man’s skills was successful.

My second attempt proved much more difficult. In the fall of that year, I began to write and understand the strange language I'd seen him use. The N's were backward, as were the R's, and in addition to several new letters, several familiar ones were not used. I practiced a full year before I could functionally read and write it without having to slip back into the past of the man who haunted me. In time, I came to know his name, Vasili Blagavich Arda.