The old band room always smells faintly of brass polish and dust, like time had been holding its breath for years. Hardly anyone used it anymore, except for when the new one was too crowded. That’s where I found myself one late afternoon, clutching my violin case and wondering if I’d regret staying behind.
I was practicing for the fall concert, but something about the room felt … different. The piano in the corner looked older than the rest of the instruments; its keys were yellowed and chipped. A crooked piece of stuffed paper sat on top of it, as if someone had been writing music, but left it in a hurry.
Curiosity won. I walked over and saw a single line of notes scribbled messily across the page. It wasn’t much, just eight notes, but the melody tugged at me like it was whispering, Play me.
So I did.
The second my bow drew across the strings, the sound shivered through the air in a way I’d never heard before. The room itself seemed to come along; the floorboard was buzzing under my shoes. I think an echo answered back, not from me, not from the violin, but somewhere deeper in the building.
I froze.
“Hello?” My voice sounded too small. No answer came, except the faint ringing of the last note.
I tried again, this time playing the sequence slower. When I hit the final note, the echo returned, clearer this time, like another violin was answering from down the hall. My skin prickled. I knew the band room was empty.
The door to the hallway creaked open.
I swallowed hard and stepped outside, violin in hand. The echo seemed to guide me, bouncing faintly through the stairwell that led down to the basement storage rooms. I had been down there once before, helping a teacher carry drums, but I remembered how cold and silent it was.
Still, I followed.
Each time I played the melody, the echo repeated itself, pulling me deeper into the shadows. The stairwell hallway was dim, lit only by buzzing fluorescent lights. At the very end stood another piano, even older than the one upstairs, tucked against the wall as if forgotten.
My stomach twisted.
On top sat another piece of staff paper. The same eight notes, except this time, one more note had been added at the end.
I played it.
The piano answered on its own. The keys pressed down as if invisible hands were playing. My heart nearly stopped.
Suddenly, a voice, soft, almost a whisper, drifted through the hall:
Finish the song.
I wanted to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. The melody was unfinished, begging to be completed. My fingers struck as I lifted my bow again, letting the music guide me. Notes poured out, and I didn’t know I had it in me, filling the empty hallway.
When I struck the final note, the air grew still. The piano let out one last chord before going silent.
Then nothing.
The sheet of paper was blank. No notes. No sign that any of it had ever been real.
