The Organ of Madame Ophelia (short story)

Opening Scene

The organ of Madame Ophelia 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 Madame Ophelia's fingers.

Madame Ophelia lived in an ancient manor on the top of a hill above the town of East Wellin. 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.

Madame Ophelia 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 Madame Ophelia. 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 organ 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 Madame Ophelia's garish sea of red couldn't save her from the fickleness of life. One night, after the organ's music had bloomed like a dark rose over the town, Madame Ophelia went to sleep. She closed her dark, sunken eyes, sank down into her scarlet sheets, and never woke up.

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