The Stillborn Requiem

In the autumn of my twelfth year, our family moved into the old Harbinger House, a sprawling Victorian relic that had stood empty for decades. My room was in the turret, a circular space with a single arched window that overlooked the overgrown garden. Below the window sat a dilapidated upright piano, its keys yellowed and its strings muffled with dust. I had never played it, but my mother insisted it added character.

One night, after a week of unsettling dreams, I woke to a strange silence. The house, usually creaking and groaning, was utterly still. I noticed a figure standing by the piano, its back to me. It was tall, dressed in a long black gown that pooled on the floor, with hair as dark as ink cascading down its back. I assumed it was my older sister, Lila, who had a history of sleepwalking. She often wandered in her sleep, her movements slow and deliberate.

I slid out of bed, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and approached her. The nightlight under the piano cast a weak, orange glow, but the figure remained in shadow, as if drinking the light. I reached out, my hand trembling slightly, and placed it on her shoulder. The fabric was cold and wet, and beneath it, I felt something hard and unyielding, like bone. And then, the figure began to turn.

As it turned, I saw that it had no face. Where a face should have been, there was only a smooth, dark void, like the husk of a burnt tree. I stumbled back, my heart hammering, and the figure took a step toward me. It moved with an eerie grace, its head tilted as if listening to something I couldn’t hear. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

The figure raised a hand, and from its fingers, tiny black moths began to flutter out, filling the room with their silent wings. They swarmed around my head, and I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. I tried to run, but my legs were heavy, as if weighted down by invisible chains. The moths parted, and the figure was before me, its void-like face inches from mine.

Then I heard a whisper, not in my ears, but inside my skull. It said, ‘You have seen me. Now you must carry my song.’ And with that, the figure raised its hand and touched my forehead. A jolt of ice shot through me, and I fell to the floor, unconscious.

I woke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the window. The piano was gone, replaced by a dusty bookcase. My sister Lila was standing at the doorway, asking if I was okay, as she had found me on the floor. I told her about the figure, but she only laughed, saying it must have been a dream. But I knew it wasn’t.

Over the next few weeks, I began to hear a faint, melancholic melody playing from the direction of the piano room, even though the piano was gone. It was a slow, dirge-like tune, something a ghost might play. At night, I would wake to find the room colder, and the moths would return, always gathering in the corner where the figure had stood.

One night, I followed the melody to the bookcase. As I pressed my ear to the wood, I could hear the music clearly, and beneath it, a soft humming. I pulled the bookcase aside, revealing a hidden door. Behind the door was a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. The melody grew louder, and I felt an irresistible pull to descend.

At the bottom, I found a small, windowless room. In the center was an ancient music box, its surface engraved with strange symbols. The lid was open, and inside, a tiny ballerina twirled to the same melody I had been hearing. Next to the music box lay a journal, bound in black leather. I opened it and found pages of writing in a language I didn’t recognize, but as I stared, the words rearranged themselves into English.

It was the diary of a girl who had lived here a century ago. She had been a prodigy pianist, but she had died of a mysterious illness on the eve of her first recital. Her final entry read: ‘I have seen the conductor. He comes to claim the unfinished song. I will play for him, and he will take me to the silent hall.’

I looked up from the journal, and the figure was there, standing in the corner of the room. Its void-like face was now clearer, and I could see faint features, as if it were trying to form a face from the memory of that girl. It spoke to me again, its whisper echoing in my mind: ‘You have found my story. Now you must finish the requiem. Play.’

I shook my head, backing away. But the music box played faster, and the moths swarmed around me, pushing me toward a small, wooden piano that had appeared in the shadows. It was the same piano from my room, now restored, its keys gleaming under a faint light. I felt my hands being guided to the keys, and my fingers began to move, playing the melody I had heard in my dreams.

But as I played, the melody became darker, more complex. The room grew colder, and the figure stepped closer, its form flickering like a candle. I realized I was not playing the requiem; I was playing the moment of death, the final chord that would bind my soul to this place. I tried to stop, but my hands were no longer mine. Tears streamed down my face as I played the last note.

When I finished, the room fell silent. The figure was gone, but its echo remained. I was free to leave, but as I climbed the stairs, I felt a change within me. I could still hear the melody, fainter now, but always present. And sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, I caught a glimpse of a dark shape behind me, waiting.

I never spoke of it again, but I knew that the conductor had claimed his song. And one day, I would have to pass it on, just as the girl had passed it to me.