On the Line [Run Cold Book Two]

10: Swan Song

The room that once housed grand pianos was still. Furniture, desks, the glossy counter I used to lean against while Mom yakked with the instructor- nothing but memories now, ghosts in a dark place. The room had lost the cheer of its music, replaced by undertones of undisturbed dust and hissing air, where the cracks in unsealed windows let the night in.

Two doors I recognized. One, a storage room or back office where my instructor would disappear to every so often. The second, that one I knew only by recognition. You didn't go near that door. That door stayed locked. Even its access had been obstructed by a wide display. To keep the curious kids at bay, the instructor would lie and tell us that was where the Phantom of the Opera lived.

Tonight, this was the only handle not covered in dust. I rubbed my arms, suddenly chilled.

"Al!" Becky's voice was hushed, but seemed to echo through the dry air. She pointed at footsteps on the floor. Her own boot filled one- female heel, probably her mom's. "Looks like she's alone."

"Except for Emma," I agreed, peering at the tracks and then the surrounding area to see if others had come this way. "Go easy across the floor. The hall is below us. She might hear us coming."

"Is there another way out?"

I shook my head. "I really don't know. I just know we can access it through here."

"Why'd she bring her here?" Becky asked, a small shiver overtaking her body. We inched forward one small step at a time until the door loomed before us in all its dark-stained glory. "You don't think it's some sort of ritual, do you? Some nights she'd come home late and sober and refused to tell me where she'd been."

"No. Whatever this is ...I think she wanted a quiet place to hide."

"Like one of your old lab rats."

"Becky, she's your mother."

"My mom left me at a playground when I was two and never looked back." Her hand clenched the door handle. The confidence in her voice cracked and wavered and little stains dotted the floor. "What's down there is a heartless demon."

"We can wait for police," I reminded her. "Just because you have a chance to face a demon, doesn't always mean you should."

"She didn't hurt me. I think I can get Emma back."

"I know you can," I told her. She turned the handle slow enough to hear every mechanism in the door groan and creak. A faint yellow glow tempered the yawning darkness, though we had to navigate our way down through the pitch before it'd provide any help. Becky went first, hand out for balance, easing both feet onto a stair before moving to the next. Dark drapes and moth-eaten flags lay upon upturned pianos and sound equipment as we found our way to the balcony landing.

A gravelly voice whispered lullabies through tattered fabric thrown across the rusted rail.

The ceiling upon in a wide dome framed by ornate pillars, all chipped ivory that glowed rose gold. We crept nearer to the rail's edge in a half-crouched stance, peering over the destroyed remnants of an era long-past to view the cluttered stage. And there upon a thin bench, sat a camping lantern. It threw the light that highlighted the ceiling, drew strange shadows from the useless equipment stored where an audience would have sat.

And it highlighted a thin woman in an oversized grey peacoat, who sat atop a piano, singing to a baby in her arms. 

Becky gasped. As if desperate for sound after a century unused, the room gathered her sharp inhale and fired it like a bullet toward the stage. Her mother looked up immediately, pulling the bundle in her arms protectively to her chest. "Who's there?"