Something is wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is that is making me uneasy.

Walking down the main hallway of the country house inherited from my grandfather, what I remember as being old, dusty and decaying now seems bright, polished and touched by a loving female hand. The doors of the various rooms stand open and inviting, giving onto brightly lit spaces with the curtains drawn wide and the windows polished to near invisibility. The perfume of fragrant flowers is everywhere. Fires burn brightly in nearly every fireplace and the dancing flames add to the sense of welcome.

Even in the normally dim hallway, mirrors, some decorative convex exemplars of the glazier’s art, have been strategically placed to catch the light and dispel the darkness from every corner. Silver candlesticks on every hallway table gleam, brightly polished, adding their own sparks of light. In little pots on either side of each door are deep green ferns, carefully transplanted from the surrounding wood, that breathe life into the often damp air and contribute their own living presence.

The impression is of a house that is lived in, and full of the love of a close and happy family. What is making me feel odd about this?

My steps scarcely make a sound on the soft carpet as I proceed down the hallway. I pass the library and look in. Here too, all is bright and cared for. The bindings of the books gleam back gold and silver on tooled ancient leather. The books stand ordered on the shelves that line the walls, behind delicately carved wood and etched glass doors. No fire burns in the fireplace but, hanging from the ceiling, a gas chandelier hisses and sputters contentedly, bathing the scene in light.

Then I hear and feel the vibrations from the music room at the end of the hall. The grand piano is being played. My last memory of the grand piano was when we covered it with the damask pall after Sophia, my wife…

The sound grows louder as I move, directed, pulled toward it, no longer turning from side to side, gazing in wonder and delight into the various rooms. The dark frame of the music room door looms before me in ancient oak carved into the form of various musical notes and instruments that seem to dance and cavort merrily around the entrance.

I cross the threshold and am instantly transfixed by the scene before me. The massive grand piano stands gleaming majestically in the light of a gold candelabra on its lid. There is no pall. And sitting before it is Sophia. Alive. She is erect on the bench, her neck arched and head slightly back as though enraptured and her body sways slightly back and forth with the music. She wears her favourite black velvet concert dress that falls lightly to the floor from her naked shoulders and neatly swaddles the gentle curves of her body. Her arms are naked as well. They are long, thin, alabaster, and her hands dance lightly across the keys picking out the notes of a difficult movement in D minor.

I fall under her spell immediately, as did half of the world when she toured Europe. I am drawn toward her, unable to resist the glow of her skin and the faint perfume of jasmine and lily that caresses my senses. I draw close behind her and my hands slip around her waist. My palms absorb the warmth that emanates from her body. She turns her head slightly and I gaze up the curve of her neck, seeing the life that beats there faint and blue, to the side of her face. Her lips are drawn into a gentle smile. The eyes are closed and the dark lashes fall onto the flawless whiteness of her cheek. She speaks.

"I’ve been waiting for you, I thought you’d never come, love."

"My love, welcome home", and I feel the heat rising in my body until my cheeks burn with ardour for her. My lips brush her neck and I taste her skin.

She stops playing and the vibrations dwindle to nothing. On the heavy rug beside the piano, she sits astride my hips and I am engulfed by the heat of her body; our bodies moving in time to a music that only we can hear.

With a groan of pleasure and despair, I awake in the half-light of a desolate, winter morning. My body is bathed in sweat and I feel my embarrassment at the sensation of wetness on my belly.

What it was that awoke me is soon clear. A cacophony of noise rises through the house discordant, clashing and grating on my ears. On the floor below, in the room at the end of the hall, the piano, un-tuned and unplayed in the seven years since Sophia’s death is being pounded upon by unknown hands. I rise, panicked by the awe inspiring noise that greets me. I dress quickly, pulling on a thick wool sweater against the cold, and race from my room.

The memory of my dream has scarcely fallen from my mind and I am shocked by the changes that have occurred. The house is only a vague remembrance of itself. Doors stand closed before unused rooms. I dash to the stairs and take them two at a time to the main floor. In the semi-light of the early morning, the hallway stands in penumbra, clashing with my memory of only moments before. I move quickly to the end of the hall. The doors stands ajar and I burst in, ready to beat the lunatic who has awoken me.

Instead, I am struck dumb at the terrible spectacle before me. The light barely fills the room and, through the stained window, I catch a glimpse of the looming black marble tomb in the shape of a piano which stands in the garden. Above the black maw of the door, in severe gothic script is the single word, ‘Sophia’.

And it is her who sits at the piano. Her shroud is black and dust covered; torn with decay. Beneath it are revealed the yellow stained bones and shrunken strips of flesh that hang and fall. The bony hands beat erratically on the keyboard and, as I watch, a blackened, curled fingernail breaks off at the root and lies inert and useless on the keyboard.

I feel a scream rise in my throat, but all that comes out is a vague moan. My heart is beating at an unfathomable rate and I feel the click of it in my neck and in my brain as I try to comprehend what I see. The noise rises again and again to my ears and I feel terror consume my mind. The shrouded head turns toward me and nods slightly, the eye sockets are filled with nothing but darkness. I feel my heart trip, beat and trip again only to stop. The music stops. My heart stops. The shrouded spectre rises before the piano, turns and approaches me. I feel blackness at the edge of my vision. She speaks.

"It’s time for you to join me, love", somehow the lip-less jaws enunciate the words amidst a clatter of naked teeth. I fall. Blackness engulfs me and a faint spot of heat escapes my mouth, disappearing forever.