The Last Record on the Shelf

My grandmother, Eleanor, died before I was born, but my mother, Claire, spoke of her as if she were still in the room. She’d inherited Eleanor’s antique shop, a musty labyrinth of china dolls, tarnished clocks, and vinyl records that smelled of old paper and dust. I’d spent winters there, listening to Mom’s stories while she dusted, the radiators ticking like heartbeats.

That February, Mom was away at a buyer’s convention in Toronto. I was house-sitting, alone in the creaking Victorian that doubled as the shop and our home. It was a blizzard night, the snow piling against the windows like frozen ghosts. I had the stereo blasting a thrash metal album, the bass thumping through the floorboards. I was lost in the music, headbanging, when I felt a presence—a cold spot at my back. I spun, but the room was empty. Then, above the din, I heard the unmistakable clack of high heels on the wooden floor, coming from the hallway. I turned the music down. ‘Hello? Mom?’ No reply. I checked the front door; it was bolted. The driveway was empty, snow untouched.

I shook it off as the wind, cranked the music back up, and went back to my laptop. But then, I felt a breath on my neck, and a voice—not my mother’s, but an older, huskier voice—rasped, ‘Turn that racket down!’ I froze. I spun around. No one. The air was frigid. I looked at the shelf of records near the door; one of them had slid out an inch, as if pushed. It was a 78 rpm of a big band song, ‘Moonlight Serenade.’ I’d never noticed it before. I felt a chill, but I told myself it was nothing—just the old house settling.

That night, I had a dream. I saw a woman in a vintage floral dress, her hair in victory rolls, standing by the record player. She was mouthing words, but I couldn’t hear. She pointed at the shelf. When I woke, the snow had stopped, but the house was freezing. I went to make coffee, and as I passed the record player, the needle dropped on its own, and a scratchy voice sang, ‘Moonlight serenade…’ I yanked the plug, but the song continued from somewhere deeper in the house. I followed it to the back room, where Mom kept the unsorted junk. The song came from a dusty crate labeled ‘Grandma’s stuff.’

I knelt, rummaging through old photographs and letters. At the bottom, I found a diary with a cracked leather cover. It was Grandma Eleanor’s. I opened it, and the pages were filled with frantic handwriting. The last entry was dated the day she died: ‘He’s here again. He stands by the record player. He says I have to turn the music down, but I can’t. I can’t let him take the song. If the music stops, he’ll take me.’ I flipped back a few pages: ‘He was a customer, a tall man with hollow eyes. He bought a record, ‘Moonlight Serenade.’ He said he could hear the music from the other side. He said he’d come back for the song. I told him to leave, but he just smiled. Now I hear him in the walls. He wants the record. He wants to hear it from the other side.’

I dropped the diary, my heart hammering. The music from the back room grew louder, and the lights flickered. I ran to the front door, but the knob was frozen. Then I heard high heels again, but this time they were frantic, running up the stairs. I followed, my legs shaking. At the top, the landing was dark. A window was frosted over, and through the glare, I saw a silhouette of a tall man standing in the snow, staring up at me. He raised his hand, palm flat against the glass. The glass frosted in the shape of a handprint. He pointed at me, then at the record player downstairs.

I backed away, tripping into Mom’s bedroom. The diary was still clutched in my hand. The music had stopped. The house was silent. I dared to breathe. I opened the diary to the very last page, where a loose piece of paper fell out. It was a receipt from the antique shop, dated the week before Grandma died. The customer’s name was written in faded ink: ‘A. Ashworth.’ The address was our own, and the item: ‘One 78 rpm record, ‘Moonlight Serenade.’ Underneath, in Grandma’s handwriting, was a scrawled note: ‘He said if he couldn’t have the record, he’d take the next best thing. He meant me.’

I heard a creak on the stairs. The footsteps were heavy now, coming up. I looked at the door, and through the gap, I saw a figure in a long coat, his face pale and gaunt. He had a record under his arm. He whispered, ‘I’ve come for the song.’ I grabbed the diary, and as he stepped into the room, I threw it at him. It passed through him, thudding against the wall. He smiled, his teeth like tombstones, and pointed to the floor. I looked down. On the ground lay a vinyl record, shattered, with a label that read ‘The Last Record.’ He said, ‘You broke it. Now you must play the tune.’

I woke up on the floor of the back room, my face pressed against the cold boards. The record player was spinning, but there was no record on it—only a rhythmic scratch. The room was full of the smell of dust and old perfume. I looked at the crate. The diary was gone. But on the shelf, where the ‘Moonlight Serenade’ record had been, there was a new one, its label blank. I reached for it, and as my fingers touched it, I heard Grandma’s voice: ‘Don’t play it, dear. He’s gone. But he’ll be back when the music stops.’ I pulled my hand back. The record was warm, like skin. I ran out of the shop, into the snow, without a coat. I never went back.

Now, every time I hear music, even a faint radio in a coffee shop, I listen for that deep, hollow voice. And sometimes, late at night, I swear I hear Grandma whispering, ‘He’s coming back for you, too.’ But I never turn the music down. Because the moment I do, that’s when I stop hearing the world, and I start hearing him.