Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Silent Auction

Every Friday night, the small auction house at the edge of town came alive. It was a quiet place, tucked between two abandoned storefronts, but those in the know called it The Collector's Room. It wasn't on any map, nor did it advertise. The items sold there weren't antiques, artwork, or anything that would appeal to the average buyer. No, The Collector's Room specialized in one-of-a-kind treasures—items steeped in mystery, whispered curses, and the kind of history that collectors with peculiar tastes couldn't resist.

Victoria had never heard of it before, not until she received the invitation. It came in a black envelope with no return address, written in elegant silver script:

"You are cordially invited to The Collector's Room. Friday at 11 p.m. One item, one bid, one winner."

Victoria was an avid collector herself—rare books, old trinkets, objects with strange stories. Her curiosity got the better of her. That Friday, she found herself standing in front of the unassuming building, a flickering neon "OPEN" sign above the door.

Inside, the room was dimly lit and silent except for the occasional murmur of voices. A group of perhaps a dozen people stood scattered, each dressed in black, their faces partially obscured by shadows. A small stage stood at the far end of the room, a single spotlight illuminating a podium. Behind it, a curtain.

A man in a tailored suit and gloves, his face lined with age, stepped onto the stage. He surveyed the room with piercing gray eyes.

"Welcome," he said, his voice smooth and deliberate. "Tonight's item is unlike anything we've ever offered before. It is an artifact of power, of... permanence. But I must warn you—once you claim it, it is yours. You cannot return it. You cannot escape it. Do you understand?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but Victoria felt a chill creep up her spine.

The man nodded once. "Very well."

He stepped back, pulling the curtain aside to reveal the item.

On a small pedestal sat an ornate, antique music box. It was gilded in tarnished gold, its edges carved with intricate floral patterns. The crank handle was ivory, worn smooth, and on the lid was a small inlaid mirror, cracked but still reflective.

A faint melody seemed to hum in the air, though the box hadn't been wound.

"The box," the man continued, "is said to hold the song of a forgotten soul. Once the melody plays, the listener is forever bound to it. Wherever you go, it will follow. But beware—it does not play for beauty alone."

Victoria's heart quickened. She had never seen anything like it. Her instincts told her to leave, but her collector's greed whispered louder.

The man raised his hand. "Shall we begin the bidding?"

The room fell silent. One by one, the bidders raised their numbered cards. The price climbed higher and higher, but Victoria barely noticed. Her hand moved on its own, lifting her card each time someone outbid her.

"Do I hear two hundred thousand?"

The crowd fell quiet. No one raised their card.

"Going once," the man said, his eyes sweeping the room. "Going twice... Sold, to number seven."

Victoria felt the blood drain from her face as she realized her card was raised. Her heart thumped wildly, but it was too late to back out now.

The man smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "Congratulations, madam. The box is yours."

She was ushered to the stage to collect her prize. The music box felt heavier than it looked, its cold surface biting against her skin. As she stepped out into the cold night air, the melody she had faintly heard before seemed louder now, more distinct. It was haunting, slow and mournful, yet eerily beautiful.

Victoria shook her head and hurried to her car, eager to leave.

That night, she placed the box on her bedside table, staring at it as if it might move. The melody had stopped the moment she left the auction house, leaving an uneasy silence in its wake.

Unable to resist, she reached out and wound the crank.

The music began to play.

The melody was softer now, almost sweet, but something about it made the hairs on her neck stand on end. As it played, the mirror on the lid began to shimmer, the cracked surface rippling like water.

She leaned closer, her reflection bending and distorting. For a moment, she thought she saw something—someone—staring back at her.

A face. Pale, sunken eyes, a wide grin that didn't belong to her.

The music stopped abruptly, and the mirror returned to its cracked state.

Victoria jumped back, her chest heaving.

"Just my imagination," she whispered, but her voice trembled. She climbed into bed, determined to forget the box and get some sleep.

But the melody returned.

It started softly, drifting through the room. She bolted upright, her eyes darting to the music box. It hadn't moved.

The sound grew louder, more discordant, the once-beautiful melody warping into something dark and broken.

And then, she saw it.

In the corner of the room, a shadow moved. It wasn't the shadow of furniture or the sway of tree branches outside. It was something else—something alive.

It crept closer, taking shape. The figure from the mirror.

"Stop," Victoria whispered, her voice barely audible. "Go away."

The figure didn't listen. It stood at the foot of her bed, its hollow eyes fixed on her.

The melody swelled, deafening now, and Victoria clamped her hands over her ears. The figure grinned wider, its head tilting unnaturally to the side.

She reached for the music box, desperate to stop the sound. Her fingers fumbled with the lid, but it wouldn't open. The melody played on.

The figure climbed onto the bed, its weight pressing down on her chest. She couldn't move, couldn't scream. Its cold, skeletal fingers brushed her face as the music reached a crescendo.

Then everything went silent.

Victoria's body was found two days later, lying in her bed as if she still clutched the music box in her hands. The coroner noted the look of terror frozen on her face, but no cause of death could be determined.

The music box was never found.

And somewhere, in another town, another black envelope was delivered.