The Accordion Door Ritual

I grew up in a two-story Victorian in the outskirts of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My family had moved there when I was four, and by the time I was nine, the house had already become a character in our lives—creaking at night, settling with age, and occasionally presenting us with odd drafts in rooms that were otherwise sealed. But there was one part of the house that always felt wrong: the library. It was a converted parlor at the back of the first floor, accessible only through a set of heavy, wooden accordion doors that had to be pulled shut with a firm click. The library housed an old upright piano and a collection of my father’s engineering books, but it was also where my mother kept a large, ornate mirror that had belonged to her grandmother. I remember being around seven when I started to develop a ritual: every night before bed, I would check the library doors, run my hand along the wooden slats, and make sure they were fully closed. If they were ever even slightly ajar, I would feel a cold rush of air and a sensation of being watched. I never told anyone about this, not even my older brother, Mark, because I was convinced that speaking it aloud would make it worse.

One evening, in late October, my parents hosted a dinner party. The house was filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses, but the library was off-limits. I was supposed to be in bed, but I had crept downstairs to sneak a cookie. As I passed the library doors, I noticed they were open about a foot. The room inside was dark, but the hallway light cast a slice of light into the space, illuminating the piano’s legs and the mirror’s edge. I felt the familiar dread, but I rationalized it: my parents must have left it open when they were showing the house to guests. So, I reached out and pulled the doors shut with a firm tug. The click was satisfying, and I turned to go back to my room. But as I took a step, I heard a soft sound from inside the library—a faint, metallic plink, like a single note struck on the piano. I froze, listening. Silence. I convinced myself it was the house settling, and I hurried upstairs, locking my door that night for the first time.

The next morning, I found the accordion doors wide open, and the piano’s keyboard cover was lifted. My mother was in the kitchen, humming as she made breakfast. I asked if she had been in the library. She looked at me oddly and said no, she hadn’t. She mentioned that my father had closed the doors before the guests arrived, and they had stayed closed all evening. I felt a chill, but I shrugged it off. I closed the doors again, and this time, I made Mark promise to check them with me every night.

Over the following weeks, the incidents grew more frequent. Sometimes I would hear the piano playing faintly at 3 a.m., always the same melody—a simple, childish tune that I recognized as something my grandmother used to play on the old Victrola. I told Mark, and he confessed he had heard it too, but he thought it was our mother playing some old record. But when we checked, no one was in the library, and the doors were always closed. One night, I decided to peek through the slats. The room was dark, but I could see a faint silhouette seated at the piano bench, back facing me, head tilted as if reading music. I called out, but the figure didn’t move. I slammed the doors shut and ran to my parents’ room, convincing them that something was in the library. They came down and found nothing, of course—the room was empty, the piano undisturbed. My father chided me for having an overactive imagination. But I saw something.

The next day, I noticed that the mirror in the library—the one that had belonged to my great-grandmother—had been turned to face the wall. I had never seen it like that. When I asked my mother why she did that, she turned pale and said she hadn’t. She then admitted that she had always felt uneasy around that mirror, as if something lived behind the glass. That night, I decided to investigate the mirror myself. I waited until everyone was asleep, then crept back into the library. The accordion doors were closed, but I pushed them open quietly. The room was cold, much colder than the rest of the house. I walked to the mirror and, with a trembling hand, turned it to face the room. In the dim light, I saw my reflection, but behind me, there was a second figure—a woman in an old-fashioned dress, her hair pinned up, her face a blur. I spun around, but no one was there. I looked back at the mirror, and she was still there, now closer, her lips moving as if speaking, but no sound. I could read her words: ‘Close the doors.’ I backed away, grabbed the accordion doors, and yanked them shut with a bang. The mirror fell from its hook and shattered on the floor.

The crash brought my parents running. They found me standing in the hallway, shaking, the doors closed. The mirror was in pieces. My father was angry, but my mother seemed relieved. She told me later that the mirror had been a wedding gift to her grandmother, and that her grandmother had died in that very room, playing the piano. We never talked about it again, but I never opened those accordion doors more than a crack. Every night, I performed my ritual of checking to make sure they were tightly shut. When we moved out two years later, I remember looking back at the house as we drove away, and I swear I saw a shadow move behind the library window. I haven’t spoken of this until now, but even today, when I see a set of accordion doors, I feel the urge to close them, and to never, ever open them again.