The Fiddle at 2:30

I’d been house-sitting for my aunt in her old farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, a two-hour drive from the nearest town. With my broken leg from a cycling accident, I was pretty much bedridden for the summer. My room was at the end of a long hallway, with a big bay window that faced the overgrown fields, and a heavy wooden door that always stuck a bit. The only other room nearby was a storage closet that had a weird, rusty latch on the outside.

Since I had nothing else to do, I’d become obsessed with paranormal podcasts and videos, especially the ones where people capture unexplained noises. I’d keep the door slightly ajar, because I had a persistent barn cat named Fergus who would meow loudly and scratch until I let him in. Around 2:30 in the afternoon, my aunt called to check on me. I yelled, ‘It’s open, just come in!’ But the door didn’t budge. Then I heard a faint, rhythmic creaking from the closet, like a door swinging on old hinges. I figured it was the wind, but the window was shut tight.

As I lay there, the creaking grew more distinct, almost like a melody. My heart started to race when I realized it wasn’t just creaking—it was a slow, deliberate fiddle tune, one I remembered from a lullaby my grandmother used to hum. The closet door, which was always closed, suddenly swung open on its own, revealing a dark, empty space. The fiddling stopped, and a cold draft swept across the room. I tried to call out, but my voice came out as a whisper.

That’s when I noticed a small, dusty wooden box on the closet floor that I’d never seen before. It was about the size of a shoebox, with intricate carvings of trees and animals. Against my better judgment, I swung my legs off the bed and hobbled over to it. The moment my fingers touched the box, the fiddling started again, louder, and the door to my room slammed shut on its own. I looked up and saw a shadowy figure in the corner, just a silhouette with long, thin limbs. It was holding a fiddle, and its head was tilted as if listening.

I grabbed the box and threw it at the figure, but it passed right through and landed with a thud in the hallway. The figure glided closer, and I felt a freezing hand on my shoulder. The fiddling became a discordant shriek, and I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed. As I looked up, the figure was gone, but the closet door was still open. The box was gone too.

That night, I called my aunt and told her I was leaving the next morning. She said something strange: ‘Oh, the fiddle box? That was my father’s. He used to play it for me, but he died in that room.’ She paused, then added, ‘I hope you didn’t open it.’ I told her I didn’t, but I lied. And now, even though I’m back home, I can’t shake the feeling that something followed me. Last night, I heard a faint fiddle tune coming from my closet. It’s always at 2:30 in the morning, and the door is slightly ajar.