The Vinyl Testament

When I was fourteen, my father’s engineering firm transferred him to a remote project in the dusty town of Red Oak, Kansas. He was gone three weeks out of four, and at first, I reveled in the freedom. But soon, the silence of our empty suburban house grew heavy, and I found myself dreading the weekends when he’d return, hollow-eyed and distant, as if the job was draining something vital from him.

Red Oak was a dying town, its main street lined with boarded-up storefronts and a single, flickering diner. The company, tired of paying for motel rooms, bought an old Victorian mansion on the edge of town. It was a monstrous thing, all peeling gingerbread trim and a sagging wraparound porch, furnished with the dust-sheeted remnants of a family long gone. My father and three other engineers, all middle-aged men with the same haunted look, would rotate through it.

One summer, I begged to go with him, hoping to escape the monotony of home. He agreed reluctantly, warning me that the house was ‘quiet’ and ‘old.’ When we pulled up, the sun was setting, casting long shadows that seemed to reach for us. The air smelled of dry rot and dust. Inside, the furniture was heavy and dark, upholstered in worn velvet. A grand piano sat in the parlor, its keys yellowed and silent.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. The house creaked and groaned, but it wasn’t the settling of old wood. It was a rhythmic scratching, like fingernails on a chalkboard, coming from the attic directly above my room. I lay rigid, listening as the sound would pause, then resume, as if whoever or whatever was up there was waiting for me to respond.

The next morning, I mentioned it to my father, but he just rubbed his temples and said, ‘Old houses make noises. Get used to it.’ The other engineers, a gruff man named Pete and a nervous one named Lloyd, exchanged a glance but said nothing. I noticed they all avoided the attic door, which was nailed shut with fresh planks.

I spent my days exploring the town, but Red Oak offered little. The only interesting place was an antique shop run by a wizened old woman named Mrs. Gable. She had a peculiar fascination with the past, and when I mentioned where I was staying, her eyes widened. ‘That house,’ she whispered, leaning in. ‘You shouldn’t be there. They never play the records.’

‘What records?’ I asked, but she clammed up, distracted by a customer. Her words haunted me, and curiosity gnawed at me. Back at the house, I searched the living room, and sure enough, in a cabinet beneath the phonograph, I found a collection of vinyl records. They were unmarked, the labels worn blank, the grooves glistening as if new.

I was alone that afternoon, the engineers at work. I selected a record, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle. A crackle, then a voice—a woman’s voice, soft and melodic, singing an old lullaby. It was beautiful but wrong. The tune was familiar, but the lyrics were distorted, as if she were singing in a language I almost understood but couldn’t quite grasp. I felt a cold draft, and the temperature in the room plummeted. I looked up and saw my breath misting. The singing grew louder, more urgent, until it was a shriek. I yanked the needle off, and the room warmed instantly.

That night, the scratching was louder, and this time, it was accompanied by a faint voice, humming the same lullaby. I covered my ears, but the sound seeped through. I ran to my father’s room, but he was asleep, his face pale. I shook him, but he wouldn’t wake. In the hallway, I saw Pete standing at the attic door, his fingers tracing the nails in the wood, a vacant look in his eyes.

‘Pete?’ I called. He didn’t respond. He began to hum. I fled back to my room and barricaded the door.

By morning, Pete was gone. The engineers said he had urgent business and left, but his car was still in the driveway. They searched the house, but no sign. The attic door was again sealed, but now the nails were rusty, as if they’d been there for years.

I confronted my father, demanding answers. He looked older, his eyes sunken. ‘We found those records,’ he said. ‘They belonged to the woman who lived here. She was a singer. She went mad, locked herself in the attic, and died there. They say her spirit is trapped in the music.’

My father continued, ‘We tried to get rid of them, but every time we do, they reappear. And the music… it does something. It calls to you. It makes you want to listen, to hear her song. But if you listen too long, you start to forget who you are. You become part of her audience, forever.’

I was terrified. That night, I heard the attic door creak open. I crept out of my room, driven by an overwhelming compulsion. In the dim light, I saw Lloyd ascending the attic stairs, moving slowly, as if in a trance. I knew I had to stop him. I ran to the cabinet, grabbed the record, and smashed it on the floor. The shards scattered, and for a moment, there was silence.

But then, from the attic, came a bone-chilling wail, and the door slammed shut. The next morning, Lloyd was gone. The attic door was again sealed, but this time, the nails were fresh.

I left Red Oak the next day, my father and the remaining engineer staying behind. I never saw any of them again.

Years later, I received a package with no return address. Inside was a vinyl record, unmarked, and a note: ‘The song is never over. It only takes new listeners.’

I burned that record, but its melody still lingers in my mind, a faint hum I can’t shake. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I hear scratching above my ceiling, and I know the song has found a new home.