The Mahogany Suite

It was the tail end of autumn, and I had fled to a remote bed-and-breakfast in the Scottish Highlands to escape the relentless noise of the city. The place was called The Gorse and Thistle, a rambling Victorian manor that clung to a cliff overlooking a slate-gray loch. My parents and my younger sister had gone for a long hike along the coast, leaving me alone in my room with a stack of unsent postcards and a half-finished novel. The wind howled through the eaves, and rain lashed at the leaded windows, but inside, the fire in the hearth crackled warmly. I had just begun to write when I heard it: a faint, tinny waltz coming from the room next to mine. It was an old gramophone record, full of static, and the melody was eerily cheery, like something from a forgotten music box. I tried to ignore it, but the tune grew louder, weaving through the draft, and soon it felt as if the very walls were humming. Annoyed, I set down my pen and knocked on the adjoining door. A woman opened it, and I stepped back in surprise. She was ancient, with a face like crumpled parchment and eyes the color of frozen peat—so dark they were almost black. Her lips were thin and bloodless, and she wore a moth-eaten velvet dress that seemed to belong to another century. She smiled at me, revealing teeth that were unnaturally white, and said in a voice that crackled like dry leaves, ‘Yes, dear?’ I asked her to lower the volume, as it was disturbing my concentration. She nodded, the motion slow and deliberate, and replied, ‘Of course.’ I returned to my room, but no sooner had I sat down than the music swelled again, now deafening. The floorboards vibrated, and the chandelier in my room swayed. I marched back, my anger boiling over, and pounded on the door. The woman opened it just as slowly as before, and this time, she didn’t wait for me to speak. She said, ‘The music is not for you,’ and shut the door in my face. The music stopped abruptly. I stood there, stunned, then backed away. From that moment, the house felt different. The hallways seemed longer, the shadows deeper. When my family returned, they found me pale and trembling. I told them what happened, but they laughed it off, saying I’d let the wind spook me. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the howl of the wind, when I heard the waltz again—softly, as if it were inside my own head. I sat up, and the music grew louder. It was coming from under the floor. I pressed my ear to the floorboards, and I could hear a faint, rhythmic tapping, like dancing feet. And then, a voice, low and ancient, whispered through the wood: ‘The last guest who stayed in this room never left.’ I froze. The voice was the old woman’s, but twisted, guttural. I scrambled to my feet and threw open the door to the hallway. The corridor was empty, but at the far end, the door to the old woman’s room stood ajar. I crept toward it, my heart pounding. Through the gap, I saw the woman standing in the center of the room, facing a tall mirror. She was no longer in the velvet dress; she wore a tattered white gown, and her hair hung lank over her face. She was swaying to the waltz, her arms raised as if dancing with an invisible partner. As I watched, she slowly turned her head, and her eyes met mine in the mirror. They were no longer dark; they were a brilliant, electric blue—so bright they seemed to glow. She smiled, and her mouth opened wide, wider than any human mouth should, and she said, ‘Join me.’ The door slammed shut, and the waltz crescendoed to a deafening roar. I ran back to my room and barricaded the door with the heavy oak chair. The music continued for hours, until dawn, when it finally faded into the sigh of the wind. When my parents and sister returned from their hike, I refused to stay another night. We left that morning. As we drove away, I looked back at The Gorse and Thistle. In the window of the corner room, I saw a figure—the old woman, I thought—but when I blinked, it was gone. I never found out who she was, and I never tried. But sometimes, late at night, when the wind is just right, I swear I can hear a distant waltz, and I remember the way her eyes burned in the mirror, and I wonder if she’s still there, waiting for someone to join her dance.