The Pipe Organ’s Lullaby

It was the summer of 2008 when I lived above the old Grandview Emporium, a crumbling three-story building on the edge of downtown Millbrook. Below us was a dusty antique shop owned by a reclusive man named Mr. Holloway, who claimed the place was once a funeral parlor. The shop itself was a magnet for misfortune: lightbulbs shattered spontaneously, the ancient cash register rang at random, and a persistent draft slithered through the rooms no matter the season. My roommate, Jess, and I had rented the top floor for a steal, ignoring the rumors that the building was cursed.

I had recently started dating a man named Alex, and I spent most nights at his apartment a few blocks away. Coming home that morning, the sun barely peeking over the rooftops, I let myself in with my key. The stairs creaked under my feet, and the air smelled of dust and old wood. Jess was already awake, sitting on her bed, her knees drawn up, her face pale. ‘You’re back early,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I need to tell you something.’ I sat on the edge of her mattress, and she clutched my arm. ‘Last night, I heard footsteps on the roof. Heavy, like someone running. Then a sound like a pipe organ, but wrong, like it was playing itself. I called the cops, but they found nothing. They said it was probably just the wind.’ I tried to reassure her, but a chill ran down my spine.

That night, Alex was working late, and I decided to stay home, partly to keep Jess company and partly to prove to her it was all in her head. We sat in the living room, watching a movie with the volume low. Around midnight, the lights flickered. Jess grabbed my hand. ‘There,’ she whispered. ‘Listen.’ I heard it then: a faint, wheezy melody, like an organ being played underwater. It seemed to come from the ceiling. I forced a laugh. ‘It’s just the old pipes in the walls,’ I said. But then came the footsteps, loud and fast, directly above us. The ceiling shook, dust raining down from the light fixture. We both froze. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. I looked at Jess, and she was crying silently.

Unable to shake the feeling, I went up to the attic to check. The door to the attic was at the end of the hallway, locked with a rusty padlock. I knew a key hung on a nail nearby. I grabbed it, the metal cold in my palm, and turned it. The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open. A set of narrow stairs led up into darkness. I fumbled for my phone’s flashlight. The attic was packed with old furniture, trunks, and a large object draped in a white sheet. My heart hammered. I pulled the sheet away, revealing a massive, ornate pipe organ, its brass pipes tarnished, its keys yellowed. The organ faced a large, circular window that overlooked the street. On the organ bench was a small leather-bound book. I opened it. The pages were filled with handwritten notes, dated from the 1930s. The last entry read: ‘She will play for me again, if I can find the right voice.’ A certificate inside showed it was owned by a church organist who had disappeared in 1932. The police report, tucked behind it, said the organist vanished while playing the organ at a funeral for a young girl. The girl’s tombstone, the report noted, was marked with the same phrase: ‘She will play for me again.’

I slammed the book shut and ran back downstairs. I found Jess in the kitchen, a knife in her hand, staring at the wall. ‘He’s calling me,’ she whispered. ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘The man in the white suit. He’s in the attic. He wants me to play for him.’ I realized then that the organist’s spirit was using the organ as a doorway, and he had chosen Jess. I tried to pull her away, but she was strong, like something else was moving her body.

I called Alex, told him to come over, but the line went dead. I ran outside, hoping to flag down a passing car, but the street was empty, the streetlights flickering. When I looked back at the building, every window on our floor was lit, and I could see a silhouette at the attic window, moving as if playing the organ. The music grew louder, a discordant lullaby, and I felt a pull, as if my soul was being drained. I stumbled back inside, up the stairs. The attic door was open, and I saw Jess seated at the organ, her fingers gliding over the keys, her eyes vacant. The organist’s ghost, a tall man with a hollow face, stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

He turned to me and smiled, his mouth a dark void. ‘You’re just in time for the requiem,’ he said. His voice was like scraping bones. ‘I’ve been waiting decades for a voice like hers.’ I grabbed a heavy candlestick from a nearby table and threw it at him. It passed through him, but it dislodged a pipe from the organ, which fell and struck him in the chest. He howled, and the music stopped. Jess slumped forward. I pulled her off the bench and dragged her down the stairs, the ghost’s wails following us. We made it out just as the building collapsed in on itself, as if the very foundation had given way.

We stood on the sidewalk, gasping, watching the dust settle. The antique shop was gone, but I swear I could still hear the faint, wheezy notes of an organ, playing a lullaby for the dead. To this day, whenever I hear a pipe organ, I feel a cold draft on my neck, and I remember the man in the white suit, waiting for his next voice. I never went back to Millbrook, and I never spoke to Jess again, but I know she still hears the music in her sleep. And I know that somewhere, in the rubble of that old building, the book lies, waiting for the next curious soul to read its final entry: ‘She will play for me again.’