The Ash-Dusted Keys

I’ve always been drawn to the forgotten things, the relics of lives that ended long before mine. So when I spotted the old pump organ at a dusty flea market in the outskirts of Millbrook, I knew I had to have it. The seller, a nervous man with rheumy eyes, claimed it came from a church that burned down in the ’70s, but he didn’t know much else. The wood was scorched in places, and a fine gray ash clung to every crevice, as if it had been pulled from the embers itself. I paid him in cash and loaded it into my van, ignoring the way his hand trembled as he took the money.

I spent the afternoon cleaning it, wiping away the soot and grime, revealing ornate carvings of oak leaves and acorns. The keys were yellowed, but the mechanism seemed intact. I tested each key, and a soft, reedy sound filled my apartment, like a ghost of a hymn. Satisfied, I left it against the wall in my bedroom, its dark silhouette looming over my dresser mirror.

That night, as I tried to sleep, I felt an odd unease, a prickling at the back of my neck. It was as if something in the room was watching me, its gaze heavy and cold. I opened my eyes and scanned the darkness, but saw nothing. Yet the feeling persisted, a constant pressure, as if a pair of eyes were fixed on me from the direction of the mirror. I didn’t dare look at it, pulling the covers over my head like a child. The feeling lasted until dawn, and I wrote it off as my imagination, a lingering effect of the creepy organ.

But the sensation didn’t go away. Every night, it returned, stronger each time. I began to avoid the mirror altogether, turning it to face the wall. Still, I could feel its presence, a malevolent intelligence watching me from that glassy surface. I tried to ignore it, burying myself in research about the organ, hoping to find some mundane explanation. But all I found was a newspaper article about a church fire in 1972, where the organist, a woman named Margaret Harlow, had perished along with the building. The details were sparse, but something about the story made my blood run cold.

One evening, a week after I brought the organ home, I was at my desk, reading about the fire on my laptop. My back was to the mirror, but I had a peripheral glimpse of it. I saw a reflection that wasn’t mine. A charred arm, black and cracked, reached out from the darkness of the glass, its fingers grasping as if to grab me. I spun around, heart pounding, but there was nothing there. The room was empty, the organ silent. My breath came in ragged gasps, and then I heard my mother’s voice from the hallway.

‘Do you smell something burning?’ she asked, her face pale as she stepped into my doorway. I hadn’t noticed it, but the air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burnt wood. I turned back to the organ, and for the first time, I noticed a new layer of ash on its keys, as if it had just been through a fire itself. My mother gagged and pointed at the mirror. I forced myself to look, and in the reflection, I saw a woman in a white choir robe, her face half-melted, standing beside the organ. She was playing it, her fingers moving over the keys, and as she played, the room grew hotter. Then, she turned her head and looked straight at me, and I knew that I had brought more than an antique home. I had brought her with it.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My mother grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the room. As we fled, I looked back and saw the organ’s keys pressing themselves down, one by one, playing a discordant melody. The smoke grew thicker, and I could swear I heard a woman singing, her voice a mournful wail. We stumbled out of the apartment, and I never went back for the organ. But sometimes, late at night, I still feel that presence, watching me through any reflective surface, waiting for me to look. And I know that wherever I go, the ash-dusted keys will find me again.