The Nine O’Clock Tune

When I was seven, our house on Maple Street had a peculiar rhythm. Every evening, at exactly nine, a soft melody drifted through the floorboards. At first, I thought it was the old pipes or the wind squeezing through the cracks, but after a few weeks, I noticed it always lasted fifteen minutes, no more, no less. It was a simple tune, like a lullaby played on a whistle, and it seemed to come from the basement.

One night, I needed to use the bathroom. The hallway was pitch black, but I had my little flashlight, the one with the red button that always stuck. I clicked it on and stepped out. The whistling started again, but this time it was louder, clearer, as if the source was right below me. My heart hammered. I crept to the banister and aimed the beam down.

There, on the bottom step of the staircase, sat a man. He wore patched overalls and heavy leather boots, not wooden clogs. He held a rough-hewn wooden pipe, the kind you might whittle yourself, and he played it with a calm, deliberate breath. His face was hidden in the shadow of the stairwell, but I could see his hands, gnarled with age, and his knees, which barely cleared the step. The tune was cheerful, almost mocking, and it seemed to fill the entire house.

I was frozen, my hand shaking so hard that the flashlight beam danced across the walls. The man didn’t look up. He just kept playing, his fingers tapping the pipe in a rhythm that made my teeth ache. Then, as suddenly as it started, the music stopped. He placed the pipe on his lap, looked up at me with eyes that were too white, and spoke in a voice that scraped like gravel. ‘You’re late,’ he said.

I ran back to my room, slammed the door, and dove under the covers. I didn’t sleep that night. The next evening, at nine o’clock, I hid under my bed, but the whistling came through the floor, right under me. It was louder, as if he had moved closer. The following week, I told my mother, but she brushed it off, saying it was the neighbor’s dog or the furnace. So I decided to face it.

I gathered a kitchen knife and a small mirror. At nine, I crept down the stairs, my flashlight on the bottom step. The man was there again, but this time he was halfway up, his knees touching the third step. He didn’t seem surprised. He stopped playing and tilted his head. ‘You brought something for me?’ he asked. I held up the knife, my hand trembling. He laughed, a dry, clicking sound, and then he pointed at the mirror. ‘Show me your face,’ he said.

I held the mirror up, expecting to see my reflection, but instead, I saw the basement. In the mirror, the basement was flooded, but the water was frozen solid, and a young girl sat on a stool in the middle, her hair white, her eyes closed. She was humming the same tune. The man whispered, ‘She’s waiting for you to finish it.’ I dropped the mirror, and it shattered. When I looked up, he was gone.

The next night, I didn’t go down. I stayed in my room, plugged my ears with cotton, but the melody came through my bones. It was slower now, sadder, like a dirge. I realized it was the same tune my grandmother used to sing, the song she said was meant to be played on a wooden flute by someone who had died. She taught it to me before she passed, but I never played it.

On the seventh night, I took my own whistle, the one my grandfather carved for me, and I went to the basement. The door was slightly ajar, a cold draft seeping out. I stepped inside, and there, in the center, was a small table with two chairs. The man sat across from me, his pipe on the table. He nodded, and I understood. I raised the whistle to my lips and began to play the tune, note for note.

As I played, the temperature dropped, and frost crept across the walls. The man’s eyes grew wider, and his skin began to crack, shedding like old bark. In the mirror, the girl opened her eyes, and she smiled. The man faded, turning into dust that swirled in the air. When I finished, the room was silent.

I walked upstairs to find my mother waiting, her face ashen. She said, ‘You broke the curse.’ But I didn’t feel like a hero. I felt hollow. Since then, I’ve kept the whistle, and some nights, at nine o’clock, I still hear a faint echo of that tune, but now it comes from inside my own head. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the old man’s face, but it’s mine.””,
“Title”: “The Nine O’Clock Tune