The Ivory Gate

The day we moved into the old farmhouse on Cedar Lane, I felt a strange sense of peace. It was a sturdy, two-story structure with a wraparound porch and a big oak tree in the front yard. The previous owners, the Hendersons, had left a few pieces of furniture, including a massive upright piano in the corner of the living room. My husband, Leo, and I had no use for it, but it seemed a shame to have it hauled away. The Hendersons had mentioned it had been in the family for generations, and they’d hoped it would find a good home.

It was a beautiful instrument, made of dark mahogany with intricate carvings of ivy and leaves. The keys were yellowed with age, but the sound was surprisingly rich. Our daughter, Clara, who was seven, took an immediate liking to it. She would sit on the bench, her little fingers hovering over the keys, and pick out simple melodies. Leo, a musician in his spare time, would often play for her, and she’d giggle with delight as he’d make up silly songs.

A month passed, and the house felt more and more like home. We’d painted the walls, planted flowers in the garden, and made friends with the neighbors. There was nothing remotely sinister about it. No strange noises, no cold spots, no unsettling feelings. It was just a house, filled with our laughter and love. That’s why what happened on that rainy Tuesday afternoon was so inexplicable.

I was in the kitchen, cleaning up after lunch, when I heard Clara playing the piano. It was a song I didn’t recognize, a hauntingly beautiful melody that seemed too complex for her age. I peeked into the living room. She was sitting in front of the piano, her eyes closed, her fingers moving over the keys with a fluency that was both mesmerizing and unsettling. I was about to say something, but then she stopped, opened her eyes, and looked at me with a strange expression.

‘Mom, who’s the man playing with me?’ she asked.

I felt a chill run down my spine. There was no one else in the room. I dismissed it, thinking she was imagining things. But later that evening, when Leo came home, I mentioned it to him. He frowned, and said, ‘That’s odd. I had the same feeling when I played earlier. Like someone was guiding my hands.’ We both laughed it off, attributing it to the age of the piano and our overactive imaginations. But deep down, I knew something was off.

The next day, while I was cleaning the piano keys, I noticed a small inscription carved into the wood above the keyboard. It read, ‘In memory of our dear Eloise, who loved music until the very end.’ I traced the letters with my finger, wondering about Eloise. Who was she? What had happened to her?

A few days later, Clara started having nightmares. She’d wake up screaming, saying that a lady with dark hair was standing by her bed, humming a tune. Leo and I tried to soothe her, but she was terrified. We considered moving her into our room, but we didn’t want to encourage her fears. I started doing some research online, trying to find any information about the house or the piano. I found an old newspaper article about a fire in the early 1900s that had destroyed the original house on the property. The family had escaped, but the piano had been saved. The article mentioned that the piano was a gift from a wealthy aunt, and that a young girl named Eloise had been a talented pianist.

I couldn’t find any more details, but I felt a growing sense of dread. The piano seemed to be at the center of it all. I mentioned my concerns to Leo, but he dismissed them, saying that Clara was just going through a phase. But then, one night, I couldn’t sleep, and I went downstairs to get a glass of water. As I passed the living room, I saw a faint glow coming from the piano. I crept closer, my heart pounding. The piano was playing softly, all by itself. The keys were moving, but no one was there. The melody was the same one Clara had been playing that afternoon.

I stood frozen, watching in horror. The music grew louder, filling the room with a mournful sound. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. But in the silence that followed, I heard a woman’s voice, barely a whisper, but clear as day: ‘Play for me.’

I ran back to our bedroom and shook Leo awake. I told him what I’d seen and heard. He looked skeptical, but when he came downstairs and saw the piano’s keys still slightly depressed, as if someone had just lifted their hands, he started to believe me. We decided to do more research, and the next day, we went to the local library to dig into the history of the property. We found a death record for a woman named Eloise Granger, who had died of tuberculosis in 1912, at the age of 23. She had been the daughter of the family that owned the piano.

We also found an old photograph of her, sitting at the piano, a faint smile on her lips. It was the same piano, I was sure of it. We were discussing what to do when the librarian, an elderly woman named Mrs. Hargrove, overheard us and said, ‘Ah, you must be the ones who bought the Henderson place. That piano has a history, you know. Eloise loved that piano so much, she asked to be buried with it, but her family couldn’t bear to part with it. They said she never really left. But that’s just an old wives’ tale.’

That night, Clara came into our room, crying. ‘The lady is angry,’ she said. ‘She says I’m playing her songs wrong.’ Leo and I looked at each other. We knew we had to do something. But what could we do? The piano was a part of the house, and we couldn’t just get rid of it. Or could we?

The next day, I contacted a piano tuner to see if he could give us an opinion. When he arrived and began to work on the instrument, he recoiled. ‘There’s something wrong here,’ he said. ‘I’ve tuned hundreds of pianos, but this one has an odd resonance. It’s like there’s a second sound underneath the strings.’ He refused to touch it further, and left hurriedly. That evening, Leo and I decided to move the piano into the garage, thinking that maybe the entity was attached to the piano and not the house. But as we started to push it across the floor, the piano began to emit a low, mournful hum, as if it were in pain.

We stopped, feeling the vibrations through the floor. Clara, who was watching from the doorway, said, ‘She doesn’t want to leave.’

That’s when we noticed a small, ornate keyhole on the side of the piano, a detail we’d never seen before. It was covered in dust, but it looked like it might fit a small key. I remembered the inscription, ‘In memory of our dear Eloise.’ We searched the house for the key, but found nothing. That night, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about Eloise. I decided to do a séance, despite my skepticism, to try to communicate with her.

I lit some candles, placed them around the piano, and sat down, holding Clara’s hand. I closed my eyes and asked, ‘Eloise, if you are here, show us a sign.’

For a moment, nothing. Then, a cold breeze swept through the room, extinguishing the candles. In the darkness, I could hear the piano keys playing a faint, eerie tune. A voice, barely audible, whispered from the piano, ‘Mine.’

I screamed, scooping up Clara, and ran out of the house with Leo. We spent the night at a neighbor’s house. The next morning, we returned to find the piano sitting in the living room, despite having moved it to the garage. It was as if it had moved itself back. And in the center of the lid, there was a fresh key, obviously not antique, but new, gleaming.

We were at a loss. The police couldn’t help, and the priest refused to bless the piano. Our friends and family told us to just leave, but we couldn’t just abandon our home. We decided to have the piano professionally moved to a storage unit, hoping that would sever the connection. As it was loaded onto the truck, I saw a young woman in a dark dress standing in the kitchen doorway, watching us. She smiled, a sad, knowing smile, and then she was gone.

That night, for the first time in weeks, the house was silent. We all slept peacefully. The next day, I went to the storage unit to check on the piano. But when I opened the door, the piano was gone. The storage unit was empty, with only a faint rose scent lingering in the air. I ran home, terrified, but the house was quiet. There was no sign of the piano or of Eloise. But I know she’s still there, waiting, biding her time. And sometimes, when I pass by the empty corner where the piano once stood, I can swear I hear the faintest strains of a lullaby, and I wonder if our daughter will ever be truly safe.