Dark Keys of Uncomplacency

Chapter 1: Moving

It was a frigid, dreary night in the middle of May 1887, in the small town of New Castle, New York. The howling wind caused the tree branches to scratch at the windows around the house. Inside sat a woman rocking her baby to sleep.

The symphonic repetition of thunder and lightning could not measure up to her one-year-old child's song of distress. She had so longed for her husband to be back from work to console their baby boy as he usually did. He would tell stories of when his father set out to war against the Confederate Army, and how happy he was when his father returned, with his saber at his side, smiling in triumph. The woman would look on, amused as she peered through the cracked door of the baby's nursery. Most times, the infant looked so content that she came to the conclusion that he could truly understand the stories his father told him, sitting in the rocking chair in the candle-lit room.

But these heart-warming thoughts crashed to the pit of her stomach where worry and anguish took over. Everything went silent except for the sound of shattered glass and two large thuds, coming from downstairs. The woman looked down at her son who had surprisingly stopped crying.

She carefully stood up from the rocking chair and walked towards the crib, with the roaring thunder outside blocking out each and every creaky step. After the baby was gently placed in his crib, the woman grabbed the lamp and shuffled towards the door. She lifted the lamp and stared down the hallway, engulfed in darkness. No sound had occurred after the startling commotion, only dead silence. She walked calmly towards the stairs, her heart fluttering and her mind inundated with angst.

The house's interior was no match for the lightning that pierced through the windows, which left the rooms full of light for seconds at a time. Pressing down with the balls of her feet, the woman stepped down to the base of the staircase. She scanned the living room and dining room and clutched the lamp tighter when she found the crushed glass on the dining room floor. She frantically waved the lamp as if that would help her make out any other sounds, amongst the deafening thunder. She heard nothing but her shallow breaths, as she walked towards the broken window.

The glass fragments had even reached the dining room table, which seemed to be sparkling in the moonlight. Then she looked across the room to find that their 1864 Steiff piano had been uncovered. The intricately carved, rococo-style Brazilian rosewood casted grotesque shadows onto the wall behind it, with each flash of lightning. The woman had recalled covering the piano as she always did after each of her sessions.

She walked over to the piano and lightly touched the keys, remembering the last song she played. Alexander Scriabin's Étude in C-sharp minor; the melody of the piece resonated within her even with the dread and panic becoming more onerous. Just as she was about to cover the keys again, she turned, only to be met by a dark figure standing in the doorway.

Before she could lift the lamp, the obscure figure rushed towards her and grabbed her by the neck. The woman could feel the cold, callused hand tightening, slowly killing her. The assailant's grip was so tight she could not make a sound.

She said with her eyes what she could not with her voice. While she was looking directly into the empty, cold eyes of her killer, he pulled out a large, shiny blade. Over and over, with no end in sight, he thrust the blade into the woman's upper abdomen, with bright crimson blood gushing all over the handle of the blade and piano behind her.

When he was finished, he let the woman's lifeless body fall onto the piano. Her blood dripped into the crevices between the white keys as her body pressed down on the piano, producing the most horrid sound. In the distance, the faint cry of a one-year-old baby could be heard amongst the eerie melody.