The Unfinished Frame

At twenty-two, I still shared the cramped attic apartment above my grandmother’s antique shop with my younger cousin, Leo. Leo was a high school senior, and his relationship with alarm clocks was purely adversarial. So, on my days off, I’d drag myself out of bed to ensure he was up, then stumble back to my cot for a few more precious hours.

That particular morning, the shop below was silent, the only sound the creak of the old house settling. After rousing Leo, I flopped back onto my mattress, staring at the sloped ceiling. The attic was drafty, and the walls, which were just plaster over lath, had gaps at the top and bottom that let cold air and every sound drift through. I could hear Leo shuffling in his room, then the bathroom door click shut.

As I lay there, a peculiar stillness crept in. The usual hum of the city beyond the window seemed to fade, replaced by a dense, expectant quiet. I felt a prickle on my neck, a sudden, irrational certainty that I was not alone. I turned my head toward the door, which was ajar, and saw a figure silhouetted in the dim hall light.

It was a man, not Leo—tall, gaunt, with a long coat that brushed the floor. He stood motionless, his face lost in shadow. I blinked, my heart hammering. ‘What do you want?’ I managed, my voice hoarse. My mind raced. The shop downstairs had a back door that was often left unlocked during business hours; a stranger could easily have wandered up.

He didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring. I could feel a cold radiating from him, a chill that seeped into my bones. ‘The shop’s not open yet,’ I said, trying to sound firm. ‘Leo, is that you?’ I called out, hoping for some mundane explanation.

But Leo’s voice came from the bathroom, muffled, ‘I’m in here, you idiot.’

The figure took a step into the room. I was frozen, gripping my blanket. He raised a hand, and in it was a small, intricate music box that I remembered from my grandmother’s collection—a mahogany box with a carved ballerina. It was one of her prized possessions, kept in a locked display case.

He set the music box on my nightstand, and the tinny melody began to play—a lullaby I hadn’t heard since I was a child. Then he spoke, his voice like gravel sliding over glass: ‘Your grandmother left this for you, but she never finished the story.’

My blood ran cold. My grandmother had passed away two years ago, but the music box, I knew, had been sold months ago to a collector from out of town. ‘Who are you?’ I choked out.

The man tilted his head, and the shadow beneath his hat brim seemed to deepen. ‘I’m the one who started the story. She asked me to finish it.’

He turned and walked out of the room. I heard his footsteps descend the attic stairs, then the creak of the shop’s back door. I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding, but by the time I reached the top of the stairs, there was no one. The door was locked from the inside.

I returned to my room, trembling, and picked up the music box. The melody had stopped. Under the base, I found a small folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. It was a letter in my grandmother’s handwriting, dated the day before she died.

‘My dear Clara, if you’re reading this, then the collector came. He was never my customer; he was an old friend—or perhaps an old enemy. I’ve been guarding the last page of his story for decades, and now I’m passing it to you. Hide it well. He’ll return for it one day.’

The letter went on to describe a family legend: a man who sold his soul to a demon to gain the power to write stories that came true. He was cursed to write until the end of time, and the only way to break the curse was to find the final page of a story he’d started centuries ago, a page that my grandmother had hidden. The music box, she wrote, contained a hidden compartment.

I pried at the base, and a tiny drawer slid out. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in elegant script. It described a scene: a woman in a red dress standing at the edge of a cliff, looking at the sea. It ended mid-sentence: ‘And then she turned, and the figure behind her was not her lover but the shadow of her own death…’

As I read those words, the air grew cold again. The music box began to play on its own, a discordant tune. The lights flickered, and from the bathroom, I heard Leo scream.

I rushed to the bathroom, but the door was locked. I pounded on it. ‘Leo! Leo, are you okay?’

There was a long pause, then a muffled, ‘Yeah, sorry, the shower splashed me. But why are you freaking out?’

I leaned my forehead against the door, my mind racing. When I returned to my room, the music box was gone. The paper was gone. But on my pillow lay a single, long black hair—not mine, not Leo’s.

The final page, I realized, had been written for me. And the collector, whoever he was, was still waiting for me to finish it. I haven’t slept with my door closed since.