The Man Who Collected Songs

It was the summer I turned thirteen, and my parents had rented a crooked old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere to ‘get away from it all’. The house was called ‘The Lonely Oak’, and it lived up to its name. A massive, gnarled oak tree stood sentinel in the front yard, its branches scratching against my window at night like bony fingers. My room was at the end of a narrow hallway, and my parents slept in the master bedroom at the other end. My sister, Clara, was eleven, and we shared a room, but she had a bunk bed on the far side, and I had a twin bed against the wall facing the door.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. The house creaked and groaned like it was alive, and the wind howled through the eaves. I lay there, staring at the door, which I had left slightly ajar so I could see the hallway light. It was a comforting orange glow, but as the hour crept toward midnight, the light seemed to dim, and the hallway grew darker. I felt a prickling at the back of my neck, that unmistakable sensation of being watched. I tried to ignore it, but the feeling intensified, and then I saw something move in the hallway.

A hand wrapped around the edge of my door. It was pale, with long, thin fingers, and the nails were yellowed and cracked. The hand slowly pushed the door open, and I saw a figure lean in from the hallway. I couldn’t make out its face, just a dark silhouette. My heart hammered in my chest, and I couldn’t move. The figure stood there for what felt like an eternity, and then I heard a voice, raspy and dry, like leaves rustling. It said something I couldn’t quite catch, so I whispered, ‘What?’

The voice repeated, clearer this time, ‘Have you seen my song?’

I was frozen, my mouth dry. I shook my head weakly, and the figure tilted its head as if confused. Then it retreated, and the door swung shut with a click. I lay there, breathless, until I finally managed to reach out and shake Clara awake. ‘There’s someone in the house,’ I whispered. She sat up, groggy, and stared at the door. ‘I heard something too,’ she said. ‘It was humming.’

The next morning, I told my parents, but they dismissed it as a dream. ‘It’s the wind,’ my mother said, and my father laughed, ‘Maybe it’s the ghost of the old man who used to live here.’ But I knew what I had seen. Over the next few days, strange things happened. I found a small, leather-bound journal in my room, hidden under the mattress. It was filled with the same few lines of music, over and over, with notes scrawled in the margins: ‘Lost the melody. Must find it.’ At night, I would hear soft humming coming from the hallway, and once, I saw the same pale hand under the door, reaching for something.

On the fifth night, I woke to the feeling of being watched. The door was open, and the figure stood in the doorway, fully visible now. It was an old man, gaunt and hollow-eyed, wearing a tattered suit. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, and then he began to hum a tune. It was eerie, beautiful, and sad. The tune was familiar, and I realized it was the same melody from the journal. He hummed it over and over, and then he reached out a hand toward me, beckoning.

I was terrified, but also drawn to him. I found myself climbing out of bed and walking toward him. He turned and shuffled down the hallway, and I followed. He led me to the attic door, which was always locked. But the man just passed through it, and I heard the lock click open from the inside. I pushed it open and climbed the creaky stairs. In the attic, there was an old gramophone, and next to it, a stack of records. The man pointed to one, and I put it on. The music that played was the same melody, but it was fast and chaotic, like a broken music box. And then the man began to sing, his voice raspy and desperate. The words were like a lullaby: ‘Come find my song, it’s lost in the night. Sing it back to me, and I’ll be alright.’

He then stopped and looked at me with pleading eyes. I saw then that his mouth was stitched shut with black thread. He couldn’t sing anymore. He wanted me to sing the song back to him. I knew the melody from the journal, so I hummed it, slowly and clearly. As I did, the man began to smile, and the stitches started to unravel. But as the last stitch pulled free, his smile widened into a gaping black void, and I realized that if I finished singing, I would take his place. I stopped abruptly, and the man’s face twisted in anger. He lunged at me, but I ducked and ran down the stairs, slamming the attic door behind me. I heard him screaming inside, and then silence.

The next morning, the attic door was locked as if it had never been opened. The journal was gone from my room, and the humming had stopped. But I found something in my pocket: a small, rusted key. I haven’t been back to the Lonely Oak since, but sometimes, when I’m alone in my room, I hear that melody, drifting through the walls, as if the man is still there, waiting for someone to finish his song.