The Organ of Madame Ophelia (short story)

The Fifth Act

The day passed in pounding rain and rising fog. Mrs. Bunt went out once to look at the charred remains of the organ. Its ivory keys were unscathed, gleaming among the charcoal splinters of wood and ash like teeth.

That night, she didn't have the spirit to fix a nice meal, so dinner consisted of cold leftover ham eaten with white rice. Mr. Bunt didn't say anything when he saw the meager spread. Maybe he was feeling the same depressive heaviness in his limbs. He looked disturbingly pale, sunken deep in thought. His eyes were darkened and unreadable, hooded in shadow. "This weather," he muttered once under his breath, and Mrs. Bunt agreed.

Before bed, Mrs. Bunt lifted the heavy crimson drapes over one of the manor's windows and peered outside. The fog had reached the manor, engulfing it. The only things she could see through the impenetrable white sea filling the moonlit darkness were the raggedy silhouettes of trees looming up towards the sky. The fog glided and swirled lazily, drifting past her window and then pressing against it as if trying to come inside. It misted her pane like someone blowing a cold breath onto the glass, obscuring her view. For a moment, through the smothering curtain of white, she thought she glimpsed a dark shadow moving between the trees outside, but the fog was descending too quickly for her to see clearly. Before the night outside was completely washed out, Mrs. Bunt realized it had stopped raining.

The heaviness in her limbs had become oppressive. She moved lethargically as she made her way upstairs. She passed her husband's study and saw light seeping through the crack under his closed door. The faint sound of papers being rustled came from inside. The soft scratching of a pen followed her down the hallway.

Mrs. Bunt lay awake in bed late into the night. She stared up at the ceiling, waiting, and blinked slowly.

Finally, Mr. Bunt's dragging footsteps came down the hall. He didn't close the bedroom door behind him, which she thought was a mistake. Although her eyes never left the ceiling, she could feel the darkness creeping into the room through the open door.

"Sarah? Are you still awake?" Mr. Bunt whispered as he lay down beside her. A damp, earthy scent trickled through the dark.

Mrs. Bunt didn't answer, but she kept her eyes wide open and unblinking.

"Sarah?"

"Close the door."

"Why?" he asked. Then he went suddenly still beside her.

A soft whirring sound was coming from somewhere in the manor, followed by a mechanical click, and then the steady tick-tock tick-tock of the clock restarting.

"I wish it wouldn't do that," Mrs. Bunt whispered. "I hate that clock."

"Shhh," Mr. Bunt said sharply. He sat up. The sheets rustled around him, the smell of damp dirt growing stronger.

A creak echoed down the hallway, followed by the gentle rattling of the closet door on its hinges. Then, silence.

The darkness pouring out of the hallway was suffocating. Mrs. Bunt felt her breathing become stilted. Without a word, she crept out of bed and down the corridor. She passed several stagnant rooms, their doors half-open and glints of moonlight falling through their curtains, glowing on the red velvet upholstery and scarlet carpets. The ticking of the clock followed her.

She made several turns, walking deeper into the manor. She was chilled to her very bones, her heart racing in her icy chest. She walked down the narrow, shadowy hallway. Her footsteps were muted as her bare feet sank into the carpet lining the corridor. The ticking was growing steadily louder as she moved farther down the hallway. There were no windows here, and the darkness was all-consuming, smothering.

At the end of the hall, she stopped moving. She simply could not remember how to.

The closet door was swinging lazily on its hinges, hanging wide open.

The metal of its knob was dull in the darkness, glinting with every swaying movement. She couldn't make out what was inside, just a deep pit of blackness. Chilly air was gliding out of the blackness and enveloping her. It was at that moment that she realized the clock had died. Silence crawled through the shadows near her ears.

Their time had run out.

She turned slowly, horror and dread filling her throat. The narrow hallway unfolded before her, empty but for the unspooling dark shadow of the carpet.

She began to run before the fear whirling in her head told her to. The rooms flashed by in glints of pale moonlight and gleams of bloody red. She stumbled around one corner and then the next, only her own scraping breaths and frantic, muffled footsteps filling her ears. Finally, she reached the bedroom. The door was closed.

"Harry!" She screamed, "Open up! Open up right now! Harry!"

There was no reply.

Gasping for breath, she seized the doorknob and shook the door violently. It rattled on its hinges. She became aware that the metal was icy cold in her hand. A soft mechanical click resonated from the other side of the door. Then the knob began to turn in her hand as it was opened from the inside.

"Harry?"

Faintly, either somewhere in the manor or somewhere in her head, she thought she heard the sound of Madame Ophelia's organ pounding out a dark, haunting melody.

※※※