The piano's final note hung in the air like a held breath as Lila stepped closer, her pulse drumming in her throat. There a shadowy figure materialized on the bench, his back to her, shoulders broad beneath a tailored 1920s waistcoat. Translucent fingers danced across the keys with practiced ease, each press drawing out a whisper of sound. Moonlight bled through his form, casting eerie silver streaks across the sheet music that hadn't been there moments before.
"Who?" Her voice cracked.
The figure turned.
Theo's face was heartbreakingly human high cheekbones shadowed by time, lips parted as if mid-song. But his eyes... Oh God, his eyes. They were full-black, voids swallowing the light, yet somehow familiar. A dizzying wave of déjà vu hit her she knew those eyes.
Then she gasped.
He vanished like smoke in wind, the bench creaking empty. In his wake:
A single black rose, petals velvety as a midnight sky, placed perfectly on the piano lid.
A date carved deep into the wood: "June 18, 1927." The grooves glistened wetly, though no moisture touched them.
The attic smelled of decaying silk and forgotten stories, the flashlight beam cutting through dust motes that swirled like agitated spirits. Lila's breath came in shallow puffs as she knelt before an antique trunk, its brass hinges screeching protest. Inside:
A portrait. Theo in a tuxedo, one hand resting on a piano, the other clutching a rose. His smile was warm, but the artist had captured something unsettling his shadow didn't match his pose, twisting upward like a reaching hand.
A concert program, its edges browned with age. "Theo Ashford: Final Performance." The paper stuck to her fingers; peeling it back revealed a rust-colored handprint smeared across his name.
Beneath these, a diary bound in cracked leather, its lock stubborn. A slip of parchment fluttered free:
"Play our song, and I'll tell you everything. T"
The handwriting matched the carvings downstairs.
A floorboard groaned behind her.
Lila spun, flashlight jerking nothing there. Yet the dust at her feet now bore two sets of footprints: hers... and a man's dress shoes, trailing toward the stairs.
The air turned bergamot-thick, Theo's cologne clinging like a touch.
"What are you?" she whispered.
The attic door slammed shut....
The air thickened with the scent of aged parchment and candle wax as Lila crept toward the grand piano, her bare feet sinking into the Persian rug's frozen fibers. Moonlight bled through the stained-glass windows, fracturing into sapphire and garnet shards across the piano's lacquered surface. There a shadow darker than the surrounding night coalesced onto the bench.
Theo's silhouette was achingly human yet undeniably spectral. His broad shoulders, draped in a tailored 1920s waistcoat, hunched slightly as he played, the fabric shimmering between solid and smoke. His fingers long, elegant, but with a pinky bent at that unnatural angle glided over the keys, coaxing out a melody that made Lila's ribs vibrate. Their melody.
She inhaled sharply.
His head snapped up.
His face.
High cheekbones carved by time, lips slightly parted as if frozen mid-whisper. But his eyes God, his eyes were pools of liquid obsidian, swallowing the light yet glowing faintly amber at the edges, like embers in a dying fire. A jolt of recognition seared through her. She knew those eyes. From dreams. From somewhere else.
Then poof he dissolved, the piano's sustain pedal releasing with a mournful creak.
Left behind:
A black rose, its petals unnaturally velvety, perched atop the sheet music. When Lila lifted it, thorns pricked her thumb, a bead of blood smearing the stem. Real. Too real.
The date "June 18, 1927" carved into the piano's edge the grooves pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
The Attic's Cursed Relics
The attic stairs groaned like a wounded animal under Lila's weight. Her flashlight beam cut through the dust-choked air, illuminating a sea of sheet-covered furniture, their shapes hunched like grieving specters. A walnut trunk, its surface etched with musical notes, called to her.
The grandfather clock struck 3:33 AM as Lila crept up the attic stairs, each step groaning under her weight like a warning. The flashlight trembled in her grip, its beam slicing through cobwebs that clung to her face like phantom fingers. The air smelled of decaying roses and wet ink—a scent that grew stronger as she reached the top.
There, bathed in moonlight from a grimy circular window, sat the walnut trunk. Its surface was carved with musical notes that seemed to shift when she looked away.
Inside...
1. The Portrait
Lila's breath hitched as she lifted the canvas.
Theo stared back at her in oils, his 1920s tuxedo impeccably tailored, one hand resting on a piano, the other clutching a rose. At first glance, he was all sharp jawline and amused smirk, but then—
His shadow didn't match. Where his body sat, the painted shadow reared up like a clawed hand reaching for his throat.
The rose in his grip bled crimson onto his cufflink. A fresh droplet swelled, then plinked onto Lila's wrist. Warm.
She dropped the portrait. Glass shattered, and for a heartbeat, the attic filled with the sound of gasping breaths Theo's last moments. Then silence.
2. The Concert Program
Beneath the portrait lay a yellowed program for "Theo Ashford's Final Performance: June 18, 1927."
A rust-brown handprint covered his name. When Lila brushed it, the paper hissed, and a man's voice growled:
"He killed me."
The edges were singed, as if someone had tried to burn it but failed.
3. The Diary
Underneath everything, bound in leather that prickled like human skin, was the diary. Its lock was cold to the touch, but as the clock ticked to 3:34 AM, it clicked open on its own.
Inside:
Blank pages until Lila touched one. Ink bubbled up, forming her handwriting:
"The rose is the key. Play our song. He's watching."
A dried black rose petal fluttered out, landing on her shoe. Where it touched, the leather sizzled.
The Uninvited Guest
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Lila spun, flashlight swinging nothing. But the dust swirled in unnatural spirals, and suddenly, the attic was 10 degrees colder.
Then she saw them:
Two sets of footprints in the dust. Hers... and a man's, leading to the stairs.
The attic door slammed shut with a bang that shook the rafters.
From the shadows, a whisper:
"You found me."
Theo's voice.
But when she turned, the only movement was the portrait's eyes rolling to follow her, pupils blown wide with fear....
Lila's lungs burned as she slammed the attic door behind her, its wood cracking like a gunshot in the silent house. She didn't stop running—couldn't stop even as her socks slipped on the grand staircase's polished steps. The flashlight tumbled from her grip, its beam spiraling into the darkness below like a falling star.
"Not real. Not real."
But the blood on her wrist (Theo's blood? How?) was still warm.
She skidded into the second-floor hallway, her pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the creak-creak-creak of the attic door reopening behind her. Shadows licked at her heels, stretching too long, too alive.
The Sanctuary (That Isn't)
Lila barricaded herself in her bedroom, shoving the vanity against the door. Her reflection in the mirror was a wild thing hair electrified by fear, lips bitten raw, eyes two shattered pools of amber.
Think. Think.
She grabbed her sketchbook, charcoal smearing as she frantically drew:
The piano with its self-playing keys
The portrait's bleeding shadow
The date: June 18, 1927
And him. Theo. His broken pinky, his coal-black eyes that somehow knew her
A floorboard groaned.
Lila froze. The scent of bergamot and rain seeped under the door.
Then a whisper against the wood:
"I'll wait for you, even if it takes a hundred years."
Theo's voice.
Her breath hitched. That wasn't possible. Wasn't
The doorknob turned by itself.
The Portrait's Wink
Lila stumbled backward, her knees hitting the bed. The sketchbook fell open to her drawing of Theo and the charcoal eyes gleamed wet, as if tears had smudged them.
A gust of wind (from where? The windows were locked) flipped the page, revealing an old photograph tucked beneath one she'd never seen before.
Theo in 1927, standing beside a piano, his arm around a woman in a flapper dress. A woman with Lila's face.
"No…"
The air thickened. The scent of roses choked her.
And then the portrait on the wall (the one she'd just drawn) winked at her.
Downstairs, the piano began to play not Clair de Lune this time, but a jaunty, desperate jazz tune. Their song.
The last thing Lila heard before the lights went out:
"You remember now, don't you?"....
Lila's body gave out before her mind did.
She slid down the bedroom wall, her legs finally buckling under the weight of terror. The barricaded door (useless, she knew he could walk through walls) trembled as the piano's jazz melody climbed the stairs, each note sharper than the last.
Her fingers clutched the photograph that impossible photograph of her own face smiling beside Theo in 1927. The edges burned her palms, but she couldn't let go.
Sleep took her like a thief in the night, dragging her under before she could fight it.
The Dream (Or Memory?)
A Party
Laughter. Champagne flutes clinking. She no, not her, the other her wore a fringed silver dress, her fingers laced with Theo's as they sneaked away from the ballroom.
"Play our song," she giggled.
Theo's smile was sunlight as he sat at the piano. But when his hands touched the keys
A Scream
the music twisted into discordant shrieks. The piano lid slammed shut on Theo's fingers. Crack. Blood spurted across the ivory keys as he roared.
A man's voice (familiar, too familiar) hissed:
"You shouldn't have loved him."
The Murder
Theo on his knees, piano wire coiled around his throat, his broken pinky jutting at that awful angle. The killer's signet ring glinted a lion with emerald eyes.
Theo's last words, gasped at her:
"Find me."
The Awakening
Lila jolted upright, her scream strangling in her throat.
Dawn bled through the curtains. The house was silent no piano, no whispers.
But on her nightstand:
The photograph, now smeared with blood (hers? Theo's?)
A single black rose petal, fresh as if just plucked
And on the mirror, scrawled in fog:
"Tonight, you'll see everything."
As Lila reached for the petal, the bedroom door creaked open on its own.
Downstairs, the piano played one mocking note.
Ding.
Like a dinner bell....