Der Erlkönig

Dare One.

It really wouldn't be that bad, they said. It was just an abandoned mansion.

I made a mental note to myself to give all three of them a good thrashing if I managed to make it out of the damned place alive.

Craning my neck to look up at the massive Gothic structure, I could feel the many aspects of my soul tearing in vastly different directions. The architect wished to charge head-first into the house, disregarding the worn, dirtied NO TRESPASSING sign, and admire the entirety of the aged structure. The artist and scientist both agreed, but on one condition: sketching and observation of decay.

The engineer, however, greatly disapproved of the entire endeavour.

"It's too dangerous," he warned the artist, scientist, and architect, "who knows what lurks beyond those half-rotted double doors?"

The teenager within me sealed my fate, and I took off, sprinting uphill to the 19th century home.

Legend has it that the owner of our local 'abandoned mansion' was a musician- and a very prominent one at that. He performed at various musical outlets of his time, entertaining the wealthy and powerful, for quite a few royals and lords and ladies had written of him in their letters and journals. His favourite performance instrument had been the violin, but he frequently performed on the piano and viola as well. His favourite piece had been Der Erlkönig, translated as the Elf King.

One night, after what was arguably his best performance, he, alongside a small orchestra, boarded a stagecoach back to his mansion, and had never been spotted since. Not even his body- nor the orchestra's- had been found when they searched his- this- mansion.

Nowadays, local campers sometimes reported faint Beethoven drifting on the wind that blew from the mansion's direction; other times, shadows of vaguely human forms had been seen moving from room to room, muttering in agitated German about the 'latest composition'.

I kept those things in mind as I raised a fist to knock on the door-- after all, my last chance to back out of the half-baked dare was now.

But resolve steels; I know mine sure did, for I wouldn't've lowered my hand to the knobs, shoved the double doors wide open and stepped inside the ancient domain of music otherwise. A cold gust of wind blew in after me, shutting the light pieces of wood closed behind me with an ominous bang that echoed throughout the house and rattled filthy pieces of glass within their frames.

Throwing my thick grey jacket over a high-backed oak chair, I squinted my eyes, attempting to make out whatever I could of the three-story's layout through the small particles of dust and whatever moonlight managed to filter through. The dining room was obviously on my immediate left, the sitting room to my right, the massive grand staircase a little ways from my front. There was a grand piano that sat in the middle of the living space, and a lone, stationary violin that lay on top of its scratched lid.

I checked my watch. October 31, 20:00, the small face read. I'd been dared to stay for 12 hours in a 19th century mansion, armed with only a flashlight, four spare batteries, a phone, a watch, and a small canister of silver.

I can make do with this, I told myself, as long as nothing weird or supernatural decides to show its face. And with that single line of motivation, I started up to the second floor.