The Key of B Minor

My family moved to a small town in Vermont when I was ten, into a sprawling Victorian house with a bay window in the front parlor. That room, with its faded wallpaper and dusty chandelier, was meant for guests, but we rarely had any. My parents, hoping to encourage my musical talent, placed an old upright piano there. I was supposed to practice every evening, but the room felt heavy, as if the air itself was watching me. I would ask to move the piano to the den, but my mother insisted it belonged in the parlor.

One autumn, my aunt came to stay for a week to help with my younger sister. She slept on the pull-out couch in the parlor. On a chilly Saturday morning, my aunt took my sister into town for a craft fair. My mother was in the kitchen canning apples, and I was practicing a new piece. The notes of the bass line were low and rumbling, almost like a distant growl. I paused, and the silence rang. That’s when I noticed the lid of the piano was slightly ajar, though I was certain I had closed it. I pushed it shut and continued, but my fingers felt sluggish, as if the keys resisted me.

I leaned closer to inspect the ivory keys, their yellowed surfaces glowing in the dim light. There was a faint scratch near the middle C, a mark I hadn’t noticed before. As I traced it, the key felt slightly loose. I pressed it, and a single note echoed, not from the piano but from the wall behind me. I spun around, but the room was empty. The curtains fluttered, though the window was shut. I tried to focus, but my eyes kept drifting to a dark stain on the wallpaper, shaped like a hand.

That evening, my aunt returned, and I was sent to bed early. In my room, I could hear the faint strains of the piano from downstairs, but no one was playing. My mother thought it was the radio, my aunt thought it was the wind. I lay in bed, listening to a melody I had never heard before, a lullaby that felt ancient and wrong. It grew louder, and I covered my ears, but the notes seemed to seep through my skull.

The next morning, I found the piano lid wide open, and on the keys lay a yellowed sheet of music with no title. The notes were in a key I didn’t recognize, but I felt compelled to play them. My fingers moved on their own, and as I played, the room grew cold. In the reflection of the bay window, I saw a figure—an old woman in a gray dress, her hands hovering over my shoulders. I stopped, and the reflection vanished.

I showed the music to my aunt, who paled. She whispered, ‘That was my grandmother’s. She used to play that song before she died. She always said it was the last thing she’d ever play.’ Our visit ended soon after, and my aunt left, taking the sheet music with her.

The day she left, I decided to have my own practice. I played my usual pieces, but the piano felt different, like it was alive and trying to sing a song of its own. I closed the lid, and as I turned away, I heard a single, high C chord, struck with a force that shook the room. I ran out, and I never played that piano again. We moved away a year later, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear that chord, right before I fall asleep, and I know it’s waiting for me to finish the song.