Estimated reading time — 12 minutes

Lady Vermella’s piano was large and black. It was covered in a thick, feathery layer of dust. Its keys were turning yellow. It pounded out a strange, haunting melody every night under Lady Vermella’s fingers.
Lady Vermella lived in an ancient manor on the top of a hill above the town of East Wellington. Her manor was hung high with ragged shadows and snaking with dark, leafy ivy. It had stood there for too long, and now its foundation was giving way, and it was starting to crumble and sink back into the ground.
Lady Vermella herself was as pale as death and fascinated by the color red. Red velvet carpets covered her floors, burgundy curtains cloaked the house in shadow, crimson gowns overflowed from her drawers. She bathed, lavished, and drowned in a sea of red, and she never ever saw daylight.
The manor stood with the town far below it, so the villagers never set eyes on Lady Vermella. Occasionally, when a dark, dark night dawned and her windows glowed in the distance, they would see a silhouette dancing behind the glass panes. The figure twirled and bent and threw back its head and laughed a long, manic laugh that carried all the way down to the villagers.
And then the piano playing would begin. Deep and dark and thrilling, it echoed down the hill and pounded in every street. The melody danced wildly up and down, going faster and faster, before fading out with a final drawn-out note. The last note was like a dying breath, leaving the streets silent and drained of life.
Life. Life is a fickle thing. Even Lady Vermella’s garish sea of red couldn’t save her from the fickleness of life. One night, after the piano’s music had bloomed like a dark rose over the town, Lady Vermella went to sleep. She closed her dark, sunken eyes, sank down into her scarlet sheets, and never woke up.

The following night, the piano was silent. Dust gathered on its keys, shifting and settling every time a frail wind blew through the cracks in the windowpanes. Night after night passed, bringing its unsettling, almost alien, silence. Finally, the stench began to waft into town. It was the stench of decayed flesh, ghastly and bitter. The villagers couldn’t focus, couldn’t go about their work, with the smell accusing them of not caring about Lady Vermella.
A brave group of men assembled. They trudged up the hill, bashed open the manor’s doors, and carried Lady Vermella’s body from the house. Her eyes had slipped partly open, and they tried to ignore the gray maggots squirming beneath her lids. Her fingers were curled into stiff claws, as if still striking the piano’s keys. Around one gleamed a golden ring, the ruby inlaid in its center glistening like a drop of blood.
They dug a hole behind the ancient manor, threw her in, and buried her. Lady Vermella became nothing but a sad mound of dirt. Perhaps they should have said a prayer or left a flower—a crimson-petaled flower—at her grave. But they did not.
The men returned home. They ate dinner and recounted the horror of death to their families. Afterwards, they went to bed.
As the night deepened and even the stars left the sky, sleep began to steal over them. Then the first low, melancholy note sounded. It came from far up on the hill, floating through the broken door of the manor. It was followed by another and then another, pulsing, rising, and beginning to pound through the night in a wild tune.
If any of the villagers hadn’t been too frozen in their beds to get up and look, they would have seen the light flick on in one of the manor’s windows and glow in the distance.
The piano played night after night, making the leaves tremble on the trees and gliding through every street with a sense of foreboding. The villagers could not sleep. They became pale and gaunt, with eyes as dark and sunken as Lady Vermella’s. Eventually, they all reached the same conclusion without it ever being voiced. Something must be done.

Something was done. The villagers convinced Lady Vermella’s cousin, who had inherited the manor but lived abroad, to sell it. It wasn’t a completely clean or honest sale. The villagers fixed the front doors and neglected to mention that Lady Vermella was buried right outside—and that the piano played a low, ominous tune every night. The unfortunate buyers were a young couple with fresh, bright faces and a general, ever-present cheer that aggravated the villagers. Still, the villagers hoped their presence would put an end to the ominous tunes and sleepless nights.
On their first evening at the manor, the couple’s dinner was interrupted by a soft creaking sound. Sarah left her husband at the table and followed the sound. She had climbed several flights of stairs and was walking down a dark, narrow hallway when she found the source. It was a small wooden door, most likely that of a closet. The door was creaking and rattling gently, as if being pushed from the inside.
Sarah stood in front of it for a moment. She didn’t like the feeling it gave her. A chilled feeling. The doorknob glinted, as if it had just been turned a fraction of an inch. She stared at it hard. It was dull and still. The chilled feeling inside her grew. To do away with the unpleasant sensation, she took the doorknob in her hand. It was icy cold, as if someone had just breathed a frosty breath over it. Sarah twisted and pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was locked, she realized, and she didn’t know where the key was.
Harry noticed his wife was a little pale, her eyes a little darting, when she returned to the dinner table. But he had already finished eating, and he had work to do, so he retired to his study and spent the rest of the evening with his paperwork instead of his wife.
Sarah cleaned up the table, closed the lid of the piano, made sure all the doors were locked, and turned off the lights in the manor one by one. Finally, she went to bed.
Alone in the dark room, she lay awake. Somewhere in the house, a clock was ticking. The sound traveled softly through each room, carefully counting each passing second. After several hours, she heard the tread of her husband’s footsteps coming down the hallway and entering the bedroom.
“Blasted paperwork,” he grumbled as he climbed into bed.
Soon, they both sank into a dreamless sleep.

Morning dawned, and their sleep dissipated into the sunlight and far-off lilt of birdsong. Harry lay in bed as his wife rummaged around in their wardrobe. He squinted at the ceiling and then held up his hand. “Darling, do you hear something?”
Sarah went very still and held her breath. She listened for the soft creak of the closet door whispering down the hallway, but all she heard was silence.
“I don’t hear anything,” she said finally.
“Exactly,” Harry replied. “Where’s the ticking of that old clock? I heard it the entire time I was in my study last night.”
Sarah frowned. “Lady Vermella didn’t take care of anything here. It must have worn out and broken while we were asleep.”
Harry simply sighed and shook his head.
“I’ll search around and find it,” Sarah added. “You can fix it, can’t you?”
“If you want me to,” he replied. “I’m not sure if it’s worth it. But if you want.”
Later that day, Sarah walked through every dark hallway and searched every room, all drowning in vivid scarlet furnishings, but she didn’t find the clock. Eventually, as if drawn by an invisible string all along, she found herself in front of the locked door. She felt the chill rising up in her as she realized the only place the clock could be was behind the door.
At dinner, Harry asked if she’d found the broken clock.
She shook her head. “I think it’s in a locked closet.”
He nodded. “I see. By the way, darling, I’ve been wanting to ask you: did you play the piano?”
“Of course not! Why would you ask?” Sarah said with surprise.
“I was just wondering why it was open. It was closed last night, wasn’t it?”
“Of course. I was the one who closed it.”
“Well then, I was just wondering why you opened it again.”
“I didn’t,” Sarah said. She felt shaky as she stood and walked to the adjacent room, where the piano resided. Its lid was flung back, revealing the yellowing keys. The layer of dust on its lid and bench had thickened, but the keys were swept clean.
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. Then she walked up to Lady Vermella’s piano and snapped the lid closed. “There,” she said to herself. “There.”
As she lay in bed that night, waiting for her husband to emerge from his study, she stared up at the ceiling and tried not to think. Distantly, she could hear the closet door rattling gently on its hinges. Moonlight fell through the half-closed crimson drapes. She began to slip into sleep, but then a soft whirring sound dragged her back to consciousness. The whirring ended with a click, followed by the steady tick-tock tick-tock of a clock.
The clock’s ticking was still creeping through the room when Harry came from his study.
“The clock restarted,” Sarah said softly, staring up at the ceiling.
“I know,” he responded. He didn’t say, “That’s good,” like she had hoped he would.

The next morning, Sarah was pale and drawn. Harry woke to find her standing in front of the mirror, touching the deep purple shiners under her eyes.
“I could hardly sleep last night,” she said, without turning around. “Every time I did, I dreamed about that awful piano playing.”
“It was only a dream, darling,” Harry said soothingly. “It’s the stress of moving into a new house that’s getting to you. You just need some time to adjust.” He sat up and began feeling under the bed for his slippers. “What time is it?” He paused, cocking his head, and then said, “Well, I’ll be darned. That old clock has stopped again.”
Sarah went downstairs to fix herself some tea, at Harry’s recommendation. Her footsteps had barely faded on the stairs when he heard her screaming his name. He rushed downstairs, half-dressed and still in his slippers. “For goodness’ sake, Sarah! Where are you?” he shouted, running into the kitchen and then back out when he found it empty.
Entering the room adjacent to the dining hall, he found her standing by Lady Vermella’s piano. The lid was thrown back, and the keys were gleaming like yellowed teeth.
“Sarah, what in the world is going on?” Harry said.
She held very rigid and still, her back to him. “It was you playing the piano last night, wasn’t it?”
“What?”
“I wasn’t dreaming. You were the one playing that ghastly song!”
“I haven’t touched this piano!”
“Then why is the lid open again? I closed it last night. I know I closed it last night!” When she turned to look at him, there was a strange expression on his face. The odd gleam faded from his eyes just as quickly as she’d glimpsed it, before she could tell if it was real or imagined.
Harry ran both his hands through his hair. “I don’t know why the lid is open again, but it wasn’t me. I’ve just about had enough of this piano. I’m getting rid of it today.”
Her eyes were wide. “Rid of it? Who are you going to sell it to?”
“I’ll donate it. Who wouldn’t want an expensive antique like this for free?”
“Everyone, I think. Everyone in this town knows it belonged to Lady Vermella. They’re not going to want it.”
“Then I’ll destroy it.”
Harry went back upstairs to get dressed. When he came down, he was lugging a can of gasoline and a box of matches from one of the storage closets.
It took some heavy lifting and quite a bit of maneuvering, but they managed to carry the piano outside.
“There,” Sarah said, pointing at a patch of bare ground behind the house.
They set it down, and the piano’s legs sank deep into the moist soil. The earthy stench filled Sarah’s nose.
Harry tilted his head upward. “It looks like it may rain soon. Let’s make this quick.”
Dark clouds were turning overhead, gathering in the sky and casting the town in a thin veil of shadow. Looking down, Sarah saw thick coils of fog cloaking the rooftops and swirling around the base of the hill. There wasn’t enough sunlight to lift the fog, and now it was rising, creeping up towards the manor in long, spidery white tendrils.
The piano’s shiny black lid, though coated in dust, still reflected the thin, pale fissures of light breaking through the clouds. Surrounded by grass and dirt, the instrument looked starkly out of place and magnificently grand.
Harry doused it in gasoline and lit a match. The glowing flame flickered as he dropped it onto the piano and stepped back. For a moment, it continued to feebly gasp for life. Then it touched the slick sheen of gas dripping off of the piano’s black wood, and it rose in a sudden swell of light.
The piano was engulfed in flame.
The fire danced eerily, reaching for the darkening sky. The air filled with smoke and the sharp smell of burning wood and paint.
Harry watched it for a moment, his eyes glinting with the wavering flames. Then he turned to his wife. “I’ll take care of the fire once the piano’s burned. You can go inside and make your tea.”
Sarah obeyed.

The day passed in pounding rain and rising fog. Sarah went out once to look at the charred remains of the piano. Its ivory keys were unscathed, gleaming among the charcoal splinters of wood and ash like teeth.
That night, she didn’t have the spirit to fix a nice meal, so dinner consisted of cold leftover ham eaten with white rice. Harry didn’t say anything when he saw the meager spread. Maybe he was feeling the same depressive heaviness in his limbs. He looked disturbingly pale, sunken deep in thought. Hooded in shadow, his eyes were darkened and unreadable. “This weather,” he muttered once under his breath, and Sarah agreed.
Before bed, Sarah lifted the heavy crimson drapes over one of the manor’s windows and peered outside. The fog had reached the manor, engulfing it. Pale tendrils glided past her window, pressing against it as if trying to come inside. The only things she could see through the impenetrable white sea were the ragged silhouettes of trees looming up towards the moon. For a moment, through the smothering curtain of white, she thought she glimpsed a dark shadow moving between the trees. But then the fog misted her windowpane like someone blowing a cold breath onto the glass, obscuring her view.
The heaviness in her limbs had become oppressive. She moved lethargically as she made her way upstairs. She passed her husband’s study and saw light seeping through the crack under his closed door. The faint sound of papers being rustled came from inside. The soft scratching of a pen followed her down the hallway.
Sarah lay awake in bed late into the night. She stared up at the ceiling, waiting, and blinked slowly.
Finally, Harry’s dragging footsteps came down the hall. He didn’t close the bedroom door behind him, which she thought was a mistake. Although her eyes never left the ceiling, she could feel the darkness creeping into the room through the open door.
“Sarah? Are you still awake?” Harry whispered as he lay down beside her. A damp, earthy scent trickled through the dark.
Sarah didn’t answer, but she kept her eyes wide open and unblinking.
“Sarah?”
“Close the door.”
“Why?” he asked. Then he went suddenly still beside her.
A soft whirring sound was coming from somewhere in the manor, followed by a mechanical click, and then the steady tick-tock tick-tock of the clock restarting.
“I wish it wouldn’t do that,” Sarah whispered. “I hate that clock.”
“Shhh,” Harry said sharply. He sat up. The sheets rustled around him, the smell of damp dirt growing stronger.
A creak echoed down the hallway, followed by the gentle rattling of the closet door on its hinges. Then, silence.
The darkness pouring out of the hallway was suffocating. Sarah felt her breathing become shallow. Without a word, she crept out of bed and down the corridor. She passed several stagnant rooms, their doors half-open and glints of moonlight falling through their curtains, glowing on the red velvet upholstery and scarlet carpets. The ticking of the clock followed her.
She made several turns, walking deeper into the manor. She was chilled to her very bones, her heart racing in her icy chest. Her footsteps were muted as her bare feet sank into the carpet lining the narrow, shadowy hallway. The ticking was growing steadily louder. There were no windows here, and the darkness was all-consuming, smothering.
At the end of the hallway, she stopped moving. She simply could not remember how to.
The closet door was swinging lazily on its hinges, hanging wide open.
The metal of its knob glinted in the darkness with every swaying movement. She couldn’t make out what was inside, just a deep pit of blackness. Chilly air was gliding out of the blackness and enveloping her. It was at that moment that she realized the clock had died. Silence crawled through the shadows near her ears.
Their time had run out.
She turned slowly, horror and dread filling her throat. The narrow hallway unfolded before her, empty but for the dark, unspooling shadow of the carpet.
She began to run before the fear whirling in her head told her to. The rooms flashed by in glints of pale moonlight and gleams of bloody red. She stumbled around one corner and then the next, only her own scraping breaths and frantic, muffled footsteps filling her ears. Finally, she reached the bedroom. The door was closed.
“Harry!” She screamed, “Open up! Open up right now! Harry!”
There was no reply.
Gasping for breath, she seized the doorknob and shook the door violently. It rattled on its hinges. She became aware that the metal was icy cold in her hand. A soft mechanical click resonated from the other side of the door. Then the knob began to turn in her hand as it was opened from the inside.
“Harry?”
Faintly, either somewhere in the manor or somewhere in her head, she thought she heard the sound of Lady Vermella’s piano pounding out a dark, haunting melody.

The villagers of East Wellington slept well that night, despite the fog pressing in on their houses, swirling against their windowpanes, and creeping under their doors. They slept so well that not one of them woke up in the middle of the night. Not one of them heard a scream.
Over the next few days, a strange scent began to waft into town. Bitter and decayed. The scent of death.
A small group of brave men once again assembled and trudged up the hill to the manor. The mist had begun to clear and was now only a thin veil. They circled the manor, passing the patch of freshly churned dirt where they had buried Lady Vermella. Tendrils of fog seeped over the grave. Not a shred of grass had sprung up and begun to cover it.
They approached the manor’s great doors and banged on them. No one answered.
“Never mind,” said one man, pushing the doors open. “They’re unlocked.”
Inside, the stench was sickening. Two men clomped upstairs, breathing shallowly. The first man walked through the maze of hallways but found nothing. He encountered the second man standing in front of a closed bedroom door.
“I found them,” the second man said in a low, shaking voice. “They’re in the room, dead. Both of them. And they’re missing their fingers.”
“Missing their fingers?” the first man said in a puzzled voice.
“Gone. They were chopped half off. You don’t want to see. It’s messy. I found this on one of the woman’s stumps. Did you find anything?”
The first man shook his head. He had seen nothing but narrow hallways and an empty closet. “What is it?” He stared at what the other man held out.
It was a golden ring, set with a glittering blood-red ruby.

Credit: M. Videla

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