Marcus pushed the rotten door open just far enough to slip inside. The afternoon light seeped through splintered shutters, painting dust motes gold as they drifted in the still air. He didn’t hesitate—he’d been chasing empty rooms for weeks, and this one felt ripe.

On a peeling table near the stairs lay a single glove, white lace stiff with age. He picked it up, half expecting it to crumble. Instead, it slipped over his fingers like it had been waiting for him.

He heard the first note before he saw the piano. It rang out from the corner—a clear, hollow tone that trembled against the walls. No breeze touched the keys. Marcus held his breath and watched as a second note joined the first, then a third. A melody formed, hesitant and fragile.

He crept forward, heart thudding in his ears. Each step felt louder than the last. The room was empty except for the piano and the glove on his hand, but the music seemed to press against his spine, inviting him closer.

When the last note faded, he drew in a sharp breath and caught a glimpse of something in the dark mirror above the fireplace. He blinked—and it was gone.

Marcus didn’t wait to see more. He bolted for the door, glove slipping off as he ran. Thunder rattled the glass behind him, and the door slammed shut in his wake.

He never went back. The glove vanished overnight, and when he tried to develop his film, every shot was just black. Still, sometimes, when the wind is right and Hawthorne Lane falls quiet, he swears he hears a piano floating on the breeze—and a soft laugh that doesn’t belong to anyone still living.