The Organ of Madame Ophelia (short story)

The First Act

The following night, the organ 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 for—of forgetting about—the Madame.

A brave group of men assembled. They trudged up the hill, bashed open the manor's doors, and carried the Madame'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 organ'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. Madame Ophelia 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 had not been too frozen in their beds to go out and look, they would have seen the light flick on in one of the manor's windows and glow in the distance.

The organ 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 Madame Ophelia's. Eventually, they all reached the same conclusion without anyone ever voicing it. Something must be done.

Something was done. They sold the manor. It wasn't a completely clean or honest sell. The villagers fixed the front doors and neglected to mention that Madame Ophelia was buried right outside—and that the organ 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.

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