Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Last Note

The diner was quiet, with only the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional clink of cutlery breaking the silence. Ellie stared out the window, her coffee growing cold in front of her. The rain had started hours ago, turning the streets into rivers of black water, their reflections shimmering in the dim glow of streetlights. She traced the edge of the chipped ceramic mug with her finger, waiting.

For what, she wasn't sure.

Her guitar case leaned against the booth beside her, battered and covered in faded stickers from places she could barely remember. She had been on the road for too long, playing one dive bar after another, her music slowly fading into obscurity. It wasn't the dream she had imagined when she'd left home ten years ago, starry-eyed and full of ambition.

The door to the diner swung open with a soft jingle, and a man stepped inside, shaking water from his coat. He was tall and lean, his face partially obscured by the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. Something about him made Ellie's stomach twist, though she couldn't put her finger on why.

The man scanned the room before his eyes landed on her. With slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the diner and slid into the booth across from her without asking.

"Ellie Grace," he said, his voice low and smooth, like a song whispered in the dark.

Her fingers froze on the mug. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet," he replied, removing his hat. His face was striking, almost too perfect, with sharp cheekbones and eyes so dark they seemed to pull her in. "But I know you."

Ellie felt a chill creep up her spine. "Look, if this is about a gig, I'm not interested. I'm taking a break."

The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's not about a gig. It's about your music."

She frowned, her unease growing. "What about it?"

He leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. "You have a gift, Ellie. A rare, beautiful gift. But you're wasting it."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Excuse me?"

"You play in rundown bars for drunks who don't appreciate you," he continued, his voice as smooth as honey. "You're meant for more than that. You're meant to be remembered."

Ellie laughed bitterly, the sound harsh even to her own ears. "Remembered? By who? The handful of people who care about folk music?"

The man's smile widened, and for a moment, his teeth seemed unnaturally sharp. "By everyone. I can give you that, Ellie. I can make you a legend."

The rain hammered against the windows, louder now, as if the storm had moved closer. Ellie stared at him, her unease growing into something closer to fear. "Who are you?"

He tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming. "You know who I am."

A memory surfaced, unbidden, of her grandmother's stories. Tales of crossroads and deals, of songs that carried a price too steep to pay. Ellie's mouth went dry.

"This is insane," she muttered, grabbing her guitar case and sliding out of the booth.

The man didn't move, but his voice stopped her cold. "Walk away if you want, Ellie. Keep playing your small-town shows until your fingers bleed and your voice breaks. But you'll never have more than that."

Her hand tightened around the guitar case handle, her mind racing. She turned back to him. "And what's the price? My soul?"

He laughed, the sound rich and echoing, filling the empty diner. "No, not your soul. I'm not greedy. I want one thing—a song. Your greatest song. The one that will make you immortal."

Ellie stared at him, her heart pounding. "And then what? You own it? What does that even mean?"

He leaned back, his smile fading. "It means the world will hear it, and they'll never forget you. But the song won't belong to you anymore. It'll belong to me."

The rain outside seemed to stop, the silence pressing in on her like a weight. Ellie thought of the years she'd spent chasing a dream that felt further away with every passing day. She thought of her calloused fingers, her aching voice, the countless miles she'd traveled alone.

And she thought of her music—the one thing that had always been hers.

She sat back down. "How does it work?"

The man's smile returned, and he reached into his coat, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook. He slid it across the table to her, along with a pen. "Write it here. Your greatest song. The one that burns in your heart but you're too afraid to let out."

Ellie hesitated, staring at the notebook. It looked ordinary enough, its cover worn and its pages yellowed with age. But when she touched it, a spark of something—power, maybe—ran through her fingers.

The man watched her, his dark eyes unblinking. "Take your time," he said.

Ellie picked up the pen, her hand trembling. She thought of all the songs she'd written, the melodies that had come to her in dreams, the lyrics she'd scrawled on napkins and receipts. And then she thought of the one song she'd never written—the one that had haunted her for years, too raw and painful to put into words.

She began to write.

The pen moved effortlessly across the page, the words pouring out of her as if they'd been waiting for this moment. The melody filled her mind, so vivid she could almost hear it, and for the first time, she didn't hold back.

When she finished, the notebook felt heavier in her hands. She looked up at the man, her chest tight.

He took the notebook from her, his touch lingering on her fingers. "Beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself.

Ellie's throat tightened. "What happens now?"

He stood, tucking the notebook into his coat. "Play the song, Ellie. Share it with the world. You'll see."

And then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of smoke and rain in his wake.

Ellie didn't sleep that night. She went back to her motel room and pulled out her guitar, her fingers shaking as she played the song. The melody was perfect, the lyrics cutting and raw, and when she sang, it felt as though the words were coming from somewhere beyond her.

The next night, she performed it at a small club in the city. The crowd fell silent as she played, their eyes wide and unblinking, as if they were under a spell. When she finished, there was a beat of stunned silence before the room erupted into applause.

The song spread like wildfire. Videos of her performance went viral, and within days, she was flooded with offers—record deals, interviews, invitations to perform on late-night shows. For the first time in her life, Ellie was a household name.

But something wasn't right.

The more she played the song, the more it seemed to take on a life of its own. She couldn't stop hearing it, even in her dreams, the melody twisting and warping into something dark and haunting. And the more people heard it, the stranger things became.

Fans started reporting vivid, terrifying nightmares after hearing the song. Some claimed to see a shadowy figure watching them, his dark eyes unblinking. Others spoke of hearing whispers in the night, a voice that sounded eerily familiar.

Ellie tried to stop playing the song, but the demand was too great. It was all anyone wanted to hear, and she couldn't deny them.

One night, after a sold-out show, she returned to her dressing room to find the leather-bound notebook sitting on the table. Her hands trembled as she opened it, the pages now filled with the lyrics of her song, written in a hand that wasn't hers.

At the bottom of the page, a single line was scrawled in red ink:

"You're remembered now, Ellie. But you'll never be free."

The notebook burst into flames in her hands, the fire consuming it in seconds. And as the smoke filled the room, Ellie saw him—the man from the diner—smiling at her from the shadows.

She screamed, but no one came.

And the song played on.