The Tune of the Other Room

I was eleven when I fell in love with the dusty records my grandfather left behind. The scratchy waltzes and mournful nocturnes became my secret world, a world I wanted to share. So when Marcus, a boy from my class who had a real piano in his living room, invited me over, I begged my mother until she sighed and said yes. I pedaled my bike through the humid afternoon, past the faded clapboard houses and the overgrown lots where cicadas droned, until I reached the corner where Marcus lived—a tall, narrow house with peeling green paint and a porch that sagged like an old hammock.

Marcus let me in with a grin, his red hair plastered to his forehead. The living room was dim, lit only by a single lamp with a fringed shade. The piano stood against the far wall, a massive upright of dark walnut, its keys yellowed with age. Marcus sat down and played. His fingers moved confidently over the keys, filling the room with a Chopin waltz that made the dust motes dance in the light. I sat on the scuffed floor, knees hugged to my chest, and listened. After fifteen minutes, he stopped, stretched, and said he needed a glass of water. He disappeared into the hallway, and I wandered into the kitchen, my stomach growling.

The kitchen was cluttered with unwashed dishes and the smell of old coffee. I was peering into a jar of pickles when I heard it—a piano, playing again. The melody was different, slower, more somber, like something from a funeral dirge. I assumed Marcus had returned, but something about the sound made my skin prickle. I set down the jar and walked back toward the living room.

At the doorway, I froze. Two figures were at the piano. One, a boy of about fifteen, sat on the bench, his fingers gliding over the keys. He had hair as black as coal and eyes that were nearly violet when he turned to look at me. He wore a white shirt with a high collar, old-fashioned, like from a Victorian portrait. Beside him, sprawled on the floor, was a man in his twenties, with a gaunt face and hollow cheeks, his eyes closed as if he were listening to a lullaby. They both seemed to radiate a coldness that seeped into the room, making the air feel thin.

‘You’re very good,’ I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

The boy at the piano glanced at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, and then he smiled—a thin, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The man on the floor opened his eyes, and they were empty, like the sky on a starless night. Without a word, the boy turned back to the keys and resumed playing. The music grew louder, more intense, and the notes seemed to twist in the air, forming shapes I couldn’t quite see. The temperature dropped, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

I backed away, my heart hammering. I stumbled down the hallway, bumping into Marcus, who was just coming out of his bedroom with a glass of water.

‘Who are they?’ I gasped.

Marcus looked at me, puzzled. ‘Who?’

‘The two men at your piano!’

Marcus’s face went pale. He hurried past me to the living room. I followed, but when I peeked in, the room was empty. The piano was closed, the bench neatly tucked in. There was no sign of anyone.

‘There’s no one here,’ Marcus said, his voice shaky. ‘You must have imagined it.’

But I hadn’t. I knew what I saw. I asked Marcus if he had any family who might have been there, but he shook his head, saying his grandfather had died in this house, and his uncle—talented, handsome, with blue eyes and black hair—had vanished when he was fifteen, and his friend, a man in his twenties, had disappeared with him. The piano had been untouched since.

I rode home in a daze, the melody still echoing in my head. That night, as I lay in bed, I heard it again—a faint piano, coming from my closet. I didn’t sleep. In the days that followed, the music grew louder, more insistent, until I found myself waking at odd hours, standing in front of my closet door, my hand on the knob. I never opened it, but I knew, with a certainty that chilled my bones, that the boy with the violet eyes was waiting for me to join him on the other side, where the music never stops.

Years later, I still hear it. And sometimes, when I look in a mirror, I catch a glimpse of black hair and violet eyes, and I wonder if I’m the one who’s vanished now.