Whistler's Inn — Part 1
Some melodies are meant to wake the dead.
The rain against the windowpanes was the only sound that greeted Sarah as she pulled up to Whistler's Inn. The Victorian-era structure stood defiant against the storm, its dark wood siding and pointed gables looking more like a fortress than a bed and breakfast. Sarah had booked the last available room after her car broke down on the desolate mountain road, her phone showing no signal for miles. The inn's porch light flickered weakly, casting long, dancing shadows across the overgrown garden. With a sigh, she grabbed her suitcase and hurried up the creaking steps, the wooden groaning beneath her weight. The heavy oak door swung open before she could knock, revealing a woman in her sixties with kind eyes and silver hair pulled back in a neat bun.
"Welcome, dear," the woman said, her voice warm as the crackling fireplace in the lobby. "I'm Martha. You must be Sarah. Your room is all ready for you." Martha checked a leather-bound ledger. "We don't get many visitors this time of year, especially with the storm rolling in. But you're safe here. Whistler's has always kept its guests safe." Sarah nodded, relieved but unnerved by the woman's intense stare. As Martha led her up the grand staircase, Sarah noticed the walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced people, their eyes seeming to follow her every move. The hallway on the second floor was narrow and dimly lit, with plush red carpet swallowing the sound of their footsteps. Martha stopped at the last door on the left. "Here you are. Room 7. The best view in the house." She handed Sarah a heavy brass key. "Dinner is served at six. Don't be late."
The room was exactly as advertised: spacious, with a four-poster bed and a large bay window overlooking the raging forest. The fire in the small stone fireplace crackled cheerfully, casting a warm glow on the antique furniture. Sarah set her suitcase down and noticed a small, ornate music box on the nightstand. Curious, she lifted the lid, but it was empty, its mechanism silent. Shrugging, she unpacked her few belongings and changed into more comfortable clothes. As the clock on the mantle struck eight, a soft knock came at her door. "Dinner's ready, dear," Martha's voice called from the other side. Sarah followed the scent of roasted meat and herbs down to the dining room, where a long table was set for two. Martha sat at the head, gesturing to the chair opposite her. "I hope you're hungry. I made your favorite."
The meal was delicious, but the conversation was sparse. Martha spoke of the inn's history, of the families who had built it and the tragedies that had befallen them over the centuries. Sarah nodded politely, but her attention kept drifting to the grandfather clock in the corner, its pendulum swinging with an unnerving regularity. "We have a tradition here," Martha said suddenly, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "At three in the morning, all our guests are treated to a special song. It's been that way since the inn was first built." Sarah forced a smile. "That sounds lovely." Martha leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It is. But whatever you do, don't listen to it. If you hear the song, you must leave the inn immediately. No matter what." Before Sarah could question her, the clock struck ten. "You should get some rest, dear," Martha said, standing up. "You have a long night ahead of you."
Sarah returned to her room, the weight of Martha's warning hanging in the air. She tried to dismiss it as an old woman's superstition, but as the house grew quiet and the storm outside intensified, a feeling of dread began to creep in. She checked the lock on her door and bolted it shut, then turned off the lights, leaving only the fire and the moonlight filtering through the window. Sleep wouldn't come. Every creak of the old house sounded like footsteps, every rustle of the wind like a whisper. She glanced at the clock: 2:57 a.m. Just three more minutes. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stay awake. Then, it began. A faint, melodic tune drifted through the walls, soft at first, then growing louder, clearer. It was a lullaby, sweet and sorrowful, yet it sent a chill down her spine. The music box on her nightstand began to glow faintly, its lid slowly opening. Sarah's blood ran cold as she realized the tune was coming from inside it. And then, she heard a voice singing along, a child's voice, coming from the closet.