Silent Is the House. Barbara J. Hancock
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before I could beg her to go away, a sound drifted toward us from far down the hall where my bedroom door stood open.
The music box.
Closed. Broken. But it began to play. Several notes. Several more.
Was she closer still? My eyes burned from not blinking. The back of my neck had gone to ice. And then, when I knew I had to turn to face her even if it meant that in those seconds she would travel to me and I would turn to find her cold, pale face against my own, she moved back instead of forward. She didn’t float or step. Again she just was farther then farther until she was down the hall and away.
Several seconds later the impossible music ground to a halt, the chill faded and I was left to turn and look down at clumps of fresh dirt on the polished studio floor.
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