The Organ of Madame Ophelia (short story)

The Second Act

On their first evening at the manor, the couple's dinner was interrupted by a soft creaking sound. Mrs. Bunt left her husband at the table and followed the sound. She had climbed several flights of stairs and was walking down a dark, narrow hallway when she found the source. It was a small wooden door, most likely that of a closet. The door was creaking and rattling slightly, as if being pushed from the inside.

Mrs. Bunt stood in front of it for a moment. She didn't like the feeling it gave her. A chilled feeling. The doorknob glinted, as if it had just been turned a fraction of an inch. She stared at it hard. It was dull and still. The chilled feeling inside her grew. In order to do away with the unpleasant sensation, she took the door's knob in her hand. It was icy cold, as if someone had just breathed a frosty breath over it. Mrs. Bunt twisted and pulled, but the door wouldn't budge. It was locked, she realized, and she didn't know where the key was.

Mr. Bunt noticed his wife was a little pale, her eyes a little darting, when she returned to the dinner table. But he had already finished eating, and he had work to do, so he retired to his study and spent the rest of the evening with his paperwork instead of his wife.

Mrs. Bunt cleaned up the table, closed the lid of the organ, made sure all the doors were locked, and turned off the lights in the manor one by one. Finally, she went to bed.

Alone in the dark room, she lay awake. Somewhere in the house, a clock was ticking. The sound traveled softly through each room, carefully counting each passing second. After several hours, she heard the tread of her husband's footsteps coming down the hallway and entering the bedroom.

"Blasted paperwork," he grumbled as he climbed into bed.

Soon, they both sank into a dreamless sleep.

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