My father was not an open book. Those that knew him would call him
a reserved man or a man of few words. But to me, he
was like a man who had retreated into his own universe, a world that
seemed filled with shadows in every corner, a waking nightmare. I would catch
him sometimes at night, just staring out the window, gripping the arms of
his chair so tight I thought his hands would start bleeding. He would lean
forward, almost falling out of his chair, as if expecting something terrible and
incomprehensible to show up at our door at any moment. My father was a
man clothed in dread. It's only something I came to realize as I got
older. He hid it well, especially from my mother, not nearly well
enough. Nothing terrified my father more than piano music, whether it was heard
in an elevator or on the TV, or being played in a shopping mall
by a hobby pianist who wanted to impress onlookers, whether it was classical or
jazz, whether it was happy or sad, simple or complex. When he
heard the sound of a piano, his eyes would bulge out of their sockets,
his skin would go pale, white. He would look around wildly,
whipping his head back and forth like a dog wrangling with a bone. I
never had the courage to ask him why he was so afraid of it.
Why didn't I just ask him? But it wasn't the thing to be acknowledged
in our home. Fear is contagious, and the easiest way to come down
with it is to talk about it. So my father's fear lingered throughout our
lives, untouched. Like a piano that was never sold, it just hung
in the air, playing its own silent music for years. My father passed
away a year ago due to heart complications. I thought his secret died with
him. But two weeks ago I was visiting my mom and decided to go
through my father's old belongings. I guess I was feeling nostalgic. After some
time, I was about to head out when I saw it, at the
bottom of a cardboard box that had been hidden in the corner of the attic.
It was an unmarked envelope. Inside was a letter comprised of several sheets
of paper. The writing and the letter was rushed and scratchy, but it
was my father's handwriting. There was no mistaking it. What I read in
that letter has haunted me for the past fourteen days. I've decided to share
that letter right here and now because I feel that in some way it may
help me better understand it. Or maybe the truth is I just want someone
to share my father's dread with. My mother would not listen to me when
I told her about the letter. She told me to burn it and to
forget whatever it said. She scolded me like I was still a child.
What you're about to hear from this point on are my father's words exactly.
I have not changed nor altered any of it. I am transcribing it word
for word. This is my father's story in his own words. I wonder
how many times I've attempted to write this letter, how many pieces of paper
I have torn up throughout the years, how many pens have gone dry,
how many pencils snapped? Too many, far too many. If I do
have the courage to finish it, I wonder who will even read it.
Maybe it'll be my dear Elizabeth, maybe you're even reading it right now.
I'm sorry for keeping this from you. I haven't been a good husband.
You don't know all of me, not nearly all of me. That's a
horrible thing to do to your wife. I hope you can forgive me,
Liz. Or maybe it'll be you, Jack, my boy, you saw
me better than I saw myself. How many times did you catch me staring?
I used to tell you I was daydreaming. If you are reading this
now, you'll know what I really saw those nights, what I heard.
Or maybe it's neither Elizabeth or Jack. Maybe it's you, Jonathan or your
mother. God help me. If it is, have you finally found me.
I've seen you out of the corner of my eyes for the last forty
years. Or maybe if you're reading this, you're a complete stranger to me.
Regardless, it's time I told this story once and for all, even
if the pen and paper I'm writing with end up being the only ones who
ever know it. In December of nineteen seventy six, I was on my
way home for the holidays. I was attending the University of Wisconsin Madison.
My parents lived in Lacrosse. It's only about a two and a half hour
drive. I got caught in a snowstorm, a storm that came out of
nowhere, I mean really came out of nowhere. Somehow I got turned around.
I've never been good at driving in snow. If you're reading this this,
you know how true there is. Remember the station wagon. God,
I nearly crashed it a hundred times. Those were good days. And days
like those, I barely ever heard the piano, or at least convinced myself
I couldn't hear it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. This was not
a bad storm. It was one hell of a bad storm. I've rolled
back the clock in my head numerous times, wondering if there was anything I
could have done differently, what if I'd driven slower or turned into the slide.
But I think in some ways, no matter what I did, that
car was destined to crash that day. And crash it I did straight into
a ditch. All my attempts to get the car out of the ditch were
futile. Snow was coming down hard. This was no soft powder but a
cocoff and your flakes and harsh sleet. Through the white storm. I saw
a house in the distance. It was the only building nearby, and I
hadn't seen any cars on the road in what felt like forever. I got
out of my car and walked towards the home. I was shocked by how
deep the snow had become already, how unrecognizable the landscape seemed. I took
one last look of my car, already being devoured by the snow, turning
it into a sad, frozen white monolith in the middle of nowhere. I
drew closer and closer to the home. Each step I took more tiresome than
the last. Then I heard something that stopped me right in my tracks.
It was the sound of music coming from the home. It was the delicate
sound of a piano. The music cut right through the harsh, cold winds
of the storm and went straight to my ears. The music was coming from
the upper part of the house. There was a window to a room on
the upper floor, but a curtain obstructed the view. Still, there was
no question that the piano music was coming from their room. My eyes went
from the top window to a window on the first floor. There was a
woman standing in the window. She was staring right at me, with a
bemused expression on her face. I waved to her nervously, and then pointed
back at my car. When I looked back, the woman was gone from
the window. Moments later, the front door to the house opened, and
I made my way up the porch steps. Can I help you, the
woman asked, standing in the doorway. She still had that amused look on
her face. It's a little embarrassing, I said, but I crashed my
car into that ditch down the road and I can't get out. Oh my,
how awful, the woman said, Please come in and get yourself warm.
I stepped inside and the woman shut the door behind me. All at
once, the noise from outside was cut off. The only noise now was
the piano music coming from upstairs. That and my chill breathing that music,
I said, rubbing my arms to get warm. It's really lovely. Oh
that's my son, Jonathan. He's a wonderful pian, honest. Please do
make yourself comfortable. I'll fix you some tea. And absolutely dreadful weather.
It simply dreadful. I sat down in the living room. It was a
warm and cozy house, but there was something underneath that made me uncomfortable.
I did not understand it fully at the time. We're looking back on it,
I believe some part of me noticed all the little things that were off
about the home. For one, there was no family photos anywhere to be
seen, and despite the warmth of the home, it had a bizarre sterile
smell, like that of an appliant store. The house looked lived in,
but didn't feel lived in. Could I use your phone? I asked?
The phones are out, the woman said, bringing back two cups of tea.
They won't be back up until morning, most likely soon as they are.
I'll phone Harvey, my neighbor. He lives the closest. I'll have
him bring his tractor and we'll get your car out of the ditch. Is
there any way to get hold of him? Now? I hate to be
a bother, but how's on my way to La Cross to see my folks
for the holidays. I was hoping to get there by to night. Upstairs,
the piano music stopped. The woman took a large sip of a tea,
looking at me over the cop with her faded green eyes. Then putting
the cop down gently, she said, Lacrosse. Goodness, gracious, how
on earth did you end up here in Dutchville County? I got turned round
Dutchville County. I've never been through her before. Well, there's no helping
it now. Harvey lives a spell away Unfortunately, you'll have to wait until
morning. Dear, I'm terribly sorry your son Jonathan. How old is he?
Twenty? Next month? She said? Finally, Oh, well,
could he then again? I hate to be a bother. Could he help
me try to push my car out? No, she said flatly, and
there was no kind of amusement in a voice. Now. Her eyes narrowed.
Jonathan cannot move all that well, even if he could, and even
if you did get your car out, the roads are terrible. You'll just
be in another ditch in no time. You're perfectly fine to sleep on the
couch to night. Come to morrow, Harvey will have you out, and
you'll be on your way to see your parents. I realized, I guess
it has to be that way. Then I realized I'd not taken a drink
of my tea, But looking at the cop I lost all thirst. The
tea looked like gross mud water that had been pulled from a gutter. For
some time, we just sat there in the quiet living room with no music.
A dreary silence took over the home. Where are you coming from,
anyhow, the woman said, putting down an empty teacup. It felt as
if an eternity had just passed. I go to school in Madison. Oh,
how lovely. What are you studying engineering? How wonderful? You know.
Jonathan used to love engineering as a boy, even more than playing the
piano. He would always build things, little trinkets and gadgets and gizmos.
But his condition made it impossible for him to pursue a higher education. He's
been a homebody for years now. All he does is play piano day and
night. He's really great at it. Oh, where are my manners?
I should introduce you both. At that, she led me out of the
living room. We began to climb the stairs. As we did, a
horrible feeling came over me, the one you might have when you're walking by
a dark alley at night, the kind of primitive instinct that screams in the
back of your head, screams, run, you idiot. Run. We
reached the top of the stairs. The hallway was dark and lit only by
a small lamp. We passed several rooms until we reached the door at the
end of the hallway. The woman, and I realized at this point I
didn't even know her name, gently pushed the door open and said Jonathan there's
someone here i'd like you to meet. The first thing I noticed when stepping
into the room was a large piano that sat in the corner. It was
a beautiful looking piano, and it looked out of place in the small room.
A piano like that should have been front and center at a concert hall.
The fading light outside filtered to the bedroom curtain, giving the room a
soft, ethereal look. I felt I was stepping into some kind of dream
world. And then I saw Jonathan sitting on his bed. I froze.
I wouldn't call Jonathan a doll exactly. He was too big to be a
doll, but he was like a rag doll in a way, a human
sized rag doll. Jonathan was not a living, breathing person. He was
just an inanimate object dressed up to look human. He wore sky blue pajamas
and had a mop of red hair. His cloth skin looked like it had
been white once but now faded to a sickly beige color. He had two
black buttons for eyes, though there were different sizes, the right eye being
much smaller than the left. It gave him the appearance that he was always
winking. I did what I could only do in that moment. I laughed.
It was a hoarse, nervous laugh. Don't you dare laugh, the
woman said sharply. She wasn't looking at me now. She was staring out
the window, one hand rubbing Jonathan's inanimate leg in a soothing gesture. Oh,
how they loved to laugh. Once Jonathan was sitting on the porch,
just minding his own business when these horrible boys from town came in and began
to harass him. I'll never forget the sound of their laughter as I chased
them off on their bikes. Oh but I call the last laugh. There
was boys loved to bike around a certain part of town, and one day
one of them went over some nasty gravel and hit his head. He's still
in the hospital. Oh yes, I got the last laugh. I'm sorry,
I said in a dry, panicked voice. Apology accepted, the woman
said, Turning to me, she had a shocked look on her face.
Then she gave me a shark's grin. I thought. Then hit me like
an arrow striking the center of a target. So chilling was the thought that
I felt I might faint at any moment. My body felt ten times heavier
when the woman and I had been downstairs, someone had been playing piano music.
Someone else had to be up here. Obviously, Jonathan playing was out
of the question. Had to be out of the question. The thought of
this grotesque rag doll being alive went against everything I believed in. I looked
around the room for a radio or record player, anything that might have been
playing the music earlier, but there was nothing of the sort. There was
only the piano. Is there any one else in the house, I asked.
The woman gave me a knowing smile and said, of course not,
It's just Jonathan and I. Jonathan continued to stare into the distance with his
misshapen button eyes. For a split second, maybe even less than that,
I thought I saw his head move ever slightly. I blinked and rubbed my
eyes. When I opened Jonathan was as still as he had been, and
the woman was walking past me. I'll go fix your bed downstairs, she
said, walking out of the room. You'll need your rest for to morrow.
Then she was gone. Only Jonathan and I were left in the room
that began to fill with an awful silence. So pervasive and relentless was the
silence that it felt as if it seeped into every pore of my body.
None of this could be real, I told myself. The woman was playing
a trick on me, had to be playing a nasty trick on me.
I once again looked over the room, hoping, merely begging God to show
me a radio or a record player, but there was nothing. I thought
about approaching Jonathan give him a real look over. For one look at that
horrible, winking eye was enough to convince me otherwise. I quickly turned and
began to walk out of the room. Then I heard what sounded like something
shifting in the bed behind me, and I ran. Within seconds, I
was down the stairs and out the front door. I knew it was suicide
running out into that storm, but I couldn't stay in that house a second
longer. The snow was so deep it slowed my running, and for a
horrible moment, I imagine Jonathan chasing after me, gaining on me with terrible
inhuman speed, his ragged old limbs moving in strange, unnatural motions. I
heard the woman yelling after me, yelling for me to come back. Then
I heard two horrible sounds. The first was that the woman was laughing,
even in the roar of the winds. Her laugh was unmistakable, piercing even
and saw her on the front porch. She did, in fact have a
horrible grin on her face, which now looked so much longer and paler than
it had before. Her laugh was an awful cackle, like thin eyes breaking.
The second horrible thing I heard was the sound of a piano being plagued.
It was coming from Jonathan's room. My car was nowhere in sight,
but it was no use to me now anyway. I ran down the road,
and eventually the woman's laugh faded, but not the piano music. No
matter how far I went, I could still hear it. It followed me
the way a bad memory follows you. I don't know how long I waded
through the snow, but at some point I collapsed and thought for sure I
was going to die. Then I saw a light coming to wark to me.
That light eventually turned into a tractor with a plow. There was a
man driving it. He got out and began to say something, but I
couldn't hear him. I was fading in and out of consciousness. The last
thing I saw before I blacked out was the man standing over me, a
horrible, concerned look on his face. The last thing I heard was piano
music. I woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar bed. For a
horrifying second, I thought I was back in that woman's house, maybe sleeping
in the very same bed as Jonathan. But that wasn't the case. I
was in an unfamiliar room alone. Sunlight was shining through the window, and
I could see that the storm had stopped. I heard the floorboards creaking outside
the room, and again, for a horrifying second, I thought the woman
would appear in the doorway, smiling, cackling. Instead, he was the
man I had seen driving the tractor. Good you're awake, the man said,
warmly. How are you feeling? Where am I? I asked,
ignoring his question. You're in my house. I found you running down the
road last night. What were you thinking? My car broke down? Aren't
you with that woman? What woman? That one that lives down the road
from where you've found me? The man said nothing. At first, he
just stared at me. Then he said, in a pensive voice, the
woman that lives down the road from where I found you? Are you with
her? I said? I gripped the bed sheets as if my life depended
on it. No, I'm not with any one, the man said,
putting up his hands. I live here on my own. I relaxed my
hands. I need to call my parents. I was on my way to
visit them when my car broke down. Phones in the kitchen, you're welcome
to use it. When you were out, I was plowing the roads.
I saw a car, your car, I gather. We can go there
when you're ready and get it out. I have already got most of it
plowed out. Truthfully, if you saw my car, then you must have
seen the house near by. That's the house where the woman lives with a
son, Jonathan. He's not a house where the woman lives. The man
said again, in that deep pensive voice. Yeah, you must have seen
it. If you saw my car, why don't you call your parents,
and if you're up for it, I'll take you to your car. He
gave me a reassuring smile. Then god up to leave. Is your name
Harvey? I asked him. He turned around and the smile on his face
dipped into a questioning frow is it it is? He said? How do
you know that the woman she told me about you and your tractor. Is
that right? For a moment, Harvey said nothing, his frown deepened.
Call your parents and then we'll get going. He left me in the room
with the sunlight as my only company. My parents were relieved to hear my
voice. I didn't tell them about what I saw in the woman's house that
already was starting to feel like a bad nightmare. I told them that my
car went into a ditch, and that I spent that night at a kind
stranger's house, and that I had been Madison. Later that day, hopefully,
I got into the tractor with Harvey, and as we drove down the
road, I was shocked to see how much of the road had already been
cleared. The storm had been so awful the night before, and the snow
had been so deep. Now I barely looked as if it had snowed.
Eventually we came upon my car. Harvey had told the truth, he had
gotten most of it out of the snow already. He killed the engine to
his tractor, and both her eyes went in the same direction. We were
looking at where the house was, or where it should have been. There
was no house there now, at least not what I had seen last night.
Instead, there were the remains of a house. The roof was gone
and part of the floor was completely carved in. Bits and pieces of the
home jotted out like the jagged teeth of some ancient monster. Is this the
house you were speaking of, Harvey asked. His voice was soft and empathetic.
I don't understand, I said, I was here last night. I
was in there. It wasn't like this son. That house has been abandoned
for years now. There was a woman who lived there, but that was
a long time ago. What happened to her, It was a long time
ago. You couldn't have met what happened. She took her own life,
Harvey said. As he spoke, we both stared at the wreckage of the
home after a son died. It was a terrible accident involving some of the
boys are in town. I don't know too much about the details. I
was young myself back then. I just know that it was ugly business,
and that she blamed one of the boys for a son's death. The boy
ended up in the hospital some time later. I don't know much else.
Like I said, it was ugly business, but that house has been abandoned
for years. No one lives there. No one could live there. Just
look at the state of it. So you were just pulling my leg.
Right, you couldn't have been in there last night. Tell me you were
just pulling my leg. I stared into Harvey's eyes, which were now threatening
to spill over with tears, and saw that the old man was in fact
terrified. Yeah, I was just pulling your leg, I said flatly.
Someone from town told you my name, his voice thin, pleading. Someone
from town put you up to it. Someone in town told me your name.
Someone from town put me up to it. Harvey led out a sigh.
Well you got me, good son, Oh boy, yeah you did.
Now let's get your car out. It did not take long for Harvey
and I to get my car out and running. We shook hands and I
thanked him for his help. As I was getting in my car and Harvey
was getting in his tractor, we both stopped at the sound of something horrifying.
It was coming from the abandoned home. It was piano music, delicate,
melancholic piano music. He stood there and just listened. Neither of us
acknowledged it. Then, after a moment, we got in our vehicles and
went our separate ways. I never saw or spoke with Harvey again, but
I've heard the piano music every night since. I'm hearing it now as I
write this letter. God help me, I'm hearing it now. That's the
end of my father's letter. I still can't quite believe what I've read that
my father really wrote these words. At least now I understand why my father
spent his life looking over his shoulder, what he saw in the shadows.
Since reading his letter, I've had this idea in my head of driving up
to dutch Field County and tried to find the house that haunted my father every
step of his life. But I'm terrified for what I'll see and what I'll hear.