The Music Box

Morning arrived in a blink. Al was sprawled on his back, feet dangling off the bed’s end. He listened as the songs of morning crickets subtly merged with the songs of his dreams, gently pushing him closer to wakefulness.

It was still dark when he shuffled out of bed, gathered his belongings and crept through Mrs. Beasley’s kitchen and onto the back patio. He was careful to side-step the floor boards that squeaked, which he had taken note of during the time of his stay. To his surprise, Mrs. Beasley was resting comfortably on the porch swing, staring placidly at the blackness in front of her.

“Good mornin’, young man,” she chirped. “Off on an adventure, are ya?”

“Yes. I’ve a day’s worth of cleaning ahead of me, so I wanted an early jump,” Al said. He had inconvenienced the old woman long enough. He’d come to claim his grandfather’s house…gramps had wanted it that way…and he found the longer he inconvenienced the lovable old woman, the more difficult it was to leave. She was quite the hostess.

“I should thank you for your generosity and hospitality. Please, take this.” Al handed her a small collection of folded bills, but she merely turned her head to them.

“That’s no good to me, son, but don’t worry. It’s been too long since I’ve had a guest, and you’ve done wonders to my skin!”

“Your skin?” Al gawked.

“Oh my, yes. I haven’t had much reason to cook for a very long time…then you arrived. I mean you no offense, but…,” Mrs. Beasley leaned closer to Al, and whispered, “…you eat like a starved horse!”

Al had to laugh at this, for the only reason he had eaten so much each night was for fear of offending the poor, old woman. He had sickened himself on some evenings with an overloaded stomach.

“Anyway, the heat of that oven has done wonders for my color,” said Mrs. Beasley.

“I’m glad to be of assistance.” Al offered her an awkward bow and even let out a subtle neigh.

Mrs. Beasley nearly choked with laughter. “You clown,” she cracked. “You’d best be off. You’ve work to do and adventures to conquer.”

With a smile and a nod, Al set off. He had made his first real friend since leaving the States, and for the moment he didn’t feel so homesick. Perhaps Ireland wasn’t so bad.

* * *

After collecting a mop and bucket and a making a long trek, Al was thrilled to finally reach his grandfather’s abandoned home. Amidst the darkness, a dimly lit porch lantern above the doorway prevented him from running into jutting rocks and a fragile wooden fence.
He quickly heaved open the heavy wood door—nearly tipping a gargoyle statuette on the front porch—and flipped the light switch. A thousand suspended bulbs illuminated and shimmered against the silver of its host chandelier. The shimmering of the chandelier seemed to wake the room from slumber, as thousands of subtle shadows were cast upon the walls and floor.

What business does a shadow have in an empty house? Al thought to himself. A shadow is a craftsman. It constructs blackened carvings of its model. But amidst emptiness, what model does it have to replicate? Al suddenly felt the cold touch of anxiety that often accompanies aloneness. He silently reprimanded himself for his philosophical foolery, and decided that he would cease with it. A part of him wished he had waited for light to do his work.

The room was grotesque, just the way he had left it from the previous day’s visit—painted with dirt and grit. The stench of agedness burned his nostrils, and dust caused him to spray several sneezes about the floor.

"This pigsty won’t be cleanin’ itself," he could hear Mrs. Beasley telling him.

Al let out a broken sigh, filled his bucket at the sink and quickly got to work...scrubbing and mopping the dust ridden floors and dirt-caked crevices...using his work as a distraction from the shadows...though shadows always seem to find a way to wash into every nook...

...and after thoroughly cleaning every room in the house, Al finally reached the living room. Grime etched where floorboards met, gathered dust told tales of its own, and at the very center of the room, amidst empty, dusty space, sat a large cardboard box.

Perplexed, Al studied the room, noting that, though thick patches of dirt packed every inch of the floor, not a single sprinkle of dust lay on the box, nor did there appear to be any footprints sketched into the filth that surrounded the box. The box didn’t even have so much as a note or marking on it to indicate where it came from

Al did not like the coldness of the room. He wasn’t completely convinced that the box had anything to do with the cold, but he didn’t like the coincidence, just the same. He decided to ignore the box altogether, at least for the time being, and continued to clean the room...around the box. However, no matter which direction he faced, the box always seemed to linger at the corner of his view.

It wasn’t until Al finished cleaning the remainder of the room that he realized how late in the evening it was. The day had passed swiftly, and Al was left with the shadows again. Cleaning had taken him much longer than he had planned and he would most likely have to stay at Mrs. Beasley’s again for the night. It didn’t seem to matter, however. Al still couldn’t take his eyes from the box in front of him. It baffled him.

“Ah, hell,” he said aloud. “Just open it you fool.”

Its ends were not taped, or stapled, or adhered in any way, so Al had little trouble unfolding the cardboard lids to reveal an empty tomb of shadow.

“Nothing?! I was fretting over nothing?” He whined. But after a second glance, he noticed a smaller wooden box in the corner of the larger cardboard box. He leaned in to retrieve it, cursing lightly to himself for having allowed himself to become so unnerved over something so small.

The box was made of cool, dark wood and engraved at the latch read, “To my Isabella.” Al unhinged the latch, freeing a chorus of song and a tiny ballerina dancer.

...but my mother’s name was Francine, Al thought to himself. Who’s Isabella?


The music box chimed over and over—every pirouette of the dancer seemed to crank the volume until it resonated throughout the room. Al became lost in the melody’s echoing rings. It soothed him, and he began to fall asleep.

* * *

He could not tell how long he had slept for, but when Al woke he had to shield his ears from the blast of the box. Its chimes had become boisterous clangs. The chandelier lights that had brought life to the room were now dimmed, so that Al had to scamper across the floor to search for the music box. The moon’s beam lunged through a glass window, casting more shadows into the room...shadows that squirmed and kicked and pranced...

...and danced.

Al watched as the collection of shadows began to find one another. One by one, the small dancing shadows adjoined to form a larger shadow, and as the shadow grew, it began to search for its shape. Al froze, stopped searching for the music box, and watched.

Somewhere in the room the music box continued to play its chime for the tiny plastic dancer, and as the shadow continued to form, Al could see that it was a dancer’s shadow. Black arms and legs began to take shape along the walls and then a head and hips and a tutu. The shadow whirled and dipped across the walls and floors, as the music box continued to sing.

Panic finally struck and Al slowly made way toward the front door of the house, never taking his widened eyes from the dancing shadow. When he felt he was close enough, he turned and sprinted—muscles aching with adrenaline and chilled sweat beading upon his skin. He grasped the door’s handle, swung it open and rushed past the wooden fence...

...and stopped.

Standing thirty feet in front of him was a woman. He could tell that she was clothed in an extravagant white dress, and that her skin was very pale. He could not clearly see her face, however, as it was captured between shadows, but he could tell that she was crying. He could feel her crying, and he suddenly felt injected with sorrow. The woman gazed at him for another moment, then slowly turned and began to walk away.

“Wait!” Al cried, but she didn't seem to hear.

Al ran after her, but as soon as she entered into deeper shadows, he had lost her.

He hunched, hands upon knees, and coughed night air. The shadows were all around him now, and he couldn’t help but cry. He cried because of how sad the woman was and he cried because he didn’t know what else to do. He was swamped by a mixture of confusion and panic. He sat crying at the stump of a nearby tree, and in a blink he was asleep.