The Persistent Hymn

I arrived at the Lyra Grand Hotel in the autumn of 2023, drawn by its reputation for Victorian elegance and its perch above the tempestuous waters of Lake Serene. The hotel had once been a sanatorium, and its architecture still bore the melancholic grandeur of that era. I was assigned Room 217, a corner suite on the second floor, facing the lake. The room was adorned with heavy draperies and a brass bed, but the moment I stepped inside, I felt an inexplicable chill, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

On my first night, I was jolted awake by the melody of a piano drifting through the walls. It was a hauntingly beautiful waltz, yet it felt wrong, as if the notes were slightly out of tune. I lay in the darkness, listening, and I could discern the faint murmur of voices underneath the music, like a distant crowd. I checked my phone: it was 3:13 AM. I pressed my ear to the wall, but the sound seemed to come from everywhere, even from the ceiling. Growing uneasy, I called the front desk. The night manager, a man with a thick accent, assured me that the room next door was vacant and that no one had permission to play the piano at that hour. He offered to send security, but I declined, thinking I must have imagined it.

The next day, I decided to explore the hotel’s history. I found a small museum in the basement, filled with photographs and artifacts from the sanatorium days. An elderly curator, Mrs. Albright, told me that the building had been converted into a hotel in the 1960s. She mentioned that the east wing had been closed for decades due to structural damage from a fire. When I asked about the piano, her face paled. She told me that a pianist named Elara Voss had died in that fire, and that she was known for playing a waltz of her own composition. ‘Some say,’ Mrs. Albright whispered, ‘that on the anniversary of her death, you can still hear her playing.’ But that night was not the anniversary.

That evening, I returned to my room to find the bathroom light flickering. I tried the switch, but it was already off. I decided to take a shower anyway, and as I stood under the hot water, I heard the piano again, this time clearer, as if it were in the adjacent bathroom. I turned off the water, and the music stopped abruptly. Dripping wet, I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped out. The bathroom light was now blazing, and the mirror was fogged, but written in the condensation were the words: ‘HE LEARNED TOO.’ A chill ran down my spine. I wiped the mirror clean, telling myself it was a prank, but I knew deep down it was not.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, the TV clicked on by itself. The screen showed static, but through the static, I could discern a shape—a woman in a white dress, her face obscured, standing at a piano. The static crackled, and I could hear a faint voice repeating, ‘She played for them, but they never listened.’ I turned the TV off, but it clicked back on three times. Each time, the image was the same. On the third time, the woman turned her head toward me, her eyes black voids. I yanked the plug from the wall, but the TV remained on, the static hissing like a snake.

I called the front desk in a panic, but the line was dead. Then, I heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find a maintenance man, Mr. Hargrove, holding a toolbox. He said he had been sent to check the TV. He stepped inside, and as he examined the set, he muttered, ‘She’s been restless lately.’ I asked what he meant. He looked at me, his eyes tired, and said, ‘Elara Voss. She used to play in the ballroom, for the patients. They say she drowned in the lake after the fire, but her body was never found. Ever since, her music has been heard on the nights when someone in this hotel is about to die.’ He handed me a small brass key. ‘This key opens the east wing. If you want to understand, go there tonight. But beware: the waltz is a requiem.’

That night, unable to sleep, I used the key to unlock the east wing. The corridor was dark, with peeling wallpaper and the smell of soot. At the end of the hall, I found the ballroom. The grand piano stood in the center, covered in a tarp. The tarp was dusty, but the keys were perfectly clean. I approached, and as I touched a key, the piano played a single note that echoed through the empty room. Then, without warning, the entire ballroom filled with the sound of the waltz, and I saw her—Elara Voss, translucent, her fingers dancing over the keys. She did not look at me, but I heard her voice in my mind: ‘They built this hotel to forget us, but I will not be forgotten. You are the first to come. You must listen.’

I stood there, paralyzed, as she played. The waltz grew faster, more frantic, and I felt a pressure in my head, as if my skull would burst. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Elara turned to me, and her face was grief-stricken. ‘The fire was no accident,’ she said. ‘He did it. The doctor, he locked us in. He wanted to silence the truth. Now you know.’ She pointed to the far wall, where I noticed a blackened patch. I walked over and saw a faded inscription, barely legible: ‘Elara was a patient, not a prisoner. He killed us all.’

I stumbled back to my room, my heart pounding. I left the Lyra Grand the next morning, before dawn, and never returned. But even now, as I write this, I can hear the piano in my own home, playing that waltz. And on the bathroom mirror this morning, I saw the words again: ‘HE LEARNED TOO.’ I don’t know who ‘he’ is, but I fear it is me.