The Ceaseless Flicker

In the autumn of 2014, my mother and I visited my cousin’s new apartment in the industrial district of Marrow Falls. The building was a refurbished textile mill, with high ceilings and exposed brick, but the unit had a strange layout: the living room opened into a narrow hallway that led to the master bedroom, which my cousin’s daughter used as a study. The apartment was eerily quiet, especially in the evenings, when the only sound was the distant hum of the old elevator.

We were sitting in the living room, my aunt, my mother, and I, talking about the renovation. The master bedroom door was slightly ajar, and inside, a desk lamp flickered on its own, casting erratic shadows across the wall. I noticed it but said nothing, assuming a faulty bulb. But then, I heard a sound: a rhythmic, papery rustling, like a stack of old letters being riffled by a draft. I glanced around, but the windows were sealed. My aunt and mother continued chatting, oblivious.

The sound grew more insistent, almost as if something was turning pages in the bedroom. I excused myself to use the bathroom, but instead, I crept toward the bedroom door. Peeking in, I saw the desk lamp now steady, and on the desk, a pile of loose sheet music was fluttering, though no air stirred. The pages moved as if an invisible hand were riffling through them, searching for a particular piece. I stepped back, my heart pounding.

Returning to the living room, I tried to join the conversation, but the sound followed me. It was no longer localized; it seemed to emanate from every corner of the room. My mother finally noticed my discomfort and asked what was wrong. Before I could answer, the lamp in the bedroom flickered violently, and the fluttering sound stopped abruptly. Silence. Then, from the bedroom, a faint, wispy voice—like a whisper of wind through dry leaves—murmured, ‘Not yet.’

My aunt turned pale and clutched her chest. She confessed that her daughter had been an accomplished pianist who died in a car accident two years ago, and they had moved into this apartment to be closer to family. She had never told us because she didn’t want to seem superstitious. She said the sheet music was her daughter’s favorite piece, one she never finished learning. Ever since they moved in, the pages would flutter on their own, especially at dusk, as if she were practicing.

That night, as we left, I looked back at the apartment building. Every window was dark except my aunt’s, where a silhouette appeared in the bedroom window, holding a sheet of music. The silhouette raised a hand as if waving, and the fluttering sound accompanied us all the way to the car, fading only when the engine turned over. I never visited that place again, but to this day, whenever I hear paper rustling—a magazine, a book left open by a fan—I freeze, listening for the whispered ‘Not yet’ that might follow.