The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Echo of Melody
by Elizabeth H. Smith
She remembered the tune well. Each note rang with familiarity as the progression of the haunting melody went on. She pulled her bathrobe tight as she walked through the dark house, wondering where the sound came from.
She quietly walked down the stairs, not wanting to alert whoever might be in the house. Her heart pounded in her chest. Sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down her nose. She had no weapon, no way to defend herself if things went badly. But the curious song called to her. An irresistible urge had taken hold, and regardless of danger, she was compelled to find the source.
She couldn’t remember where she heard the song before, only that she definitely heard it somewhere. It seemed important, as if it were connected to some event in her life, something that felt like it should have been unforgettable. But she couldn’t recall what it was.
When she reached the bottom of the staircase she halted on the last step and peeked around before stepping off onto the floor. A board creaked as soon as she put her foot down. She held her breath and listened for movement, any indication that the intruder had been alerted. But the song continued playing.
She tiptoed her way to the living room. Inside was a grand piano dominating one corner. She expected to see someone sitting on the bench, running their fingers over the keys. But the seat was empty and the music stopped as soon as she laid eyes on the instrument.
As much as the tune had intrigued her, she couldn’t help but think there was something sinister behind it; maybe the memory it would trigger was something best left forgotten. Maybe there was a reason her mind wiped it away.
That thought brought her to realize there were other things she couldn’t remember, many things. She didn’t know who she was, what she did for a living, not even her own name. The house looked familiar, and she had the feeling it was hers, but no real knowledge of it aside from her gut telling her that was true.
She thought it strange that it took so long for her to realize this, but the music had been so alluring she focused on nothing else. It wasn’t until the house was quiet that her thoughts had a chance to shift elsewhere. With immense effort she tried to pull up some recollection of herself and who she might be, but it was a futile attempt.
She thought maybe she was tired, too exhausted to remember. Or that she was having a lucid dream and the loss of memory was part of it. Both seemed reasonable, innocuous, and safe. That idea calmed her trembling body, set her fear at ease. So she began up the stairs to return to bed.
After only a few steps the music started up again, right where it had left off. The cadence began down a darker path, the notes deeper and harsher. The sad song that drew her in began to thrum with rage and contempt.
She hurried back to the living room, and again, the piano sat unplayed. She stared at it for a while. It appeared so lonely in the unlit room. Soft moonlight seemed to make the ivory glow, and the smooth black surface displayed a slight reflection. She wondered if she played piano. Why else would she have one? Unless it was a complete fantasy within a dream, something that didn’t actually exist outside of her head.
She wished she could remember.
Stepping forward, she walked over to the piano. She sat on the bench and lightly ran her fingers over the keys. An unbroken layer of dust sat atop them; they’d not been touched in some time. She then saw an engraving on the inside of the fallboard—Melody.
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Melody,” she said aloud to herself. “That’s my name.”
She placed her hands over the keys by muscle memory alone and began to play the only tune she remembered. As her nimble fingers pressed away, playing exactly the song that drew her there, Melody’s form began to fade. Her body became ever more translucent as the requiem was played with ghostly hands. As the last note rang out, she dissipated completely, and the house was quiet once again.
.
Fiction © Copyright Elizabeth H. Smith
Image courtesy of Pixabay
More About Elizabeth H. Smith:
Elizabeth H. Smith is a storyteller who writes while trying to keep her cat, Luna off the keyboard. The musical group, Rasputina is her muse. She was born in the state of New York and would never feel at home anywhere else.
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