We present, for your enjoyment, four tales of the macabre.  Sit back, and try to relax as we take you on a roller coaster ride of the unsettling and terrifying.

Tale number one explores the consequences of letting the head-less rule the heart.

Even During a Pre-Dawn Walk, I still Fear the Call Coming From Inside the House

FLOATERS

By Bonnie Brunner

Mona rocked in her chair waiting for her grandson to return home. She glanced at the photo of him on the side table with her one good eye. Ethan gazed back with the same emerald green eyes as hers. Theirs are a rare color, especially with the dark ring around the edges.

She startled when the door opened, she must have dozed off.

“What did the doctor say?” she asked.

“That I might have a weakening retina,” Ethan answered.

“Did she say what to do about it?”

“Yeah…we should keep an “eye” on it. I don’t like her humor.” he replied.

“Will you make your old Grammy some tea?”

“Sure,” he put the kettle on and sat on the couch.

“What’s the matter Ethan? Have you a chill? You’re shivering.”

“YOU CAN’T HAVE THEM!” he shouted.

“Heavens! Can’t have what?” Mona quivered.

My eyes, he thought.

 “Nothing, sorry Grammy,” he said.

Ethan sees black webbed figures out of the corner of his eye. He is never alone. The eye doctor calls them floaters, and says the flashing lights in his peripheral vision could be the sign of a weakening retina. He has not told the doctor about the cold breath he feels on his neck with every flash of light, or that these “floaters” have voices. Voices that demand he give up his eyes.

“You haven’t been yourself for months. You really need to see more than an eye doctor.” She offered.

“I’ll think about it. I’m going to go lay down.”

As Ethan walked to his room, there was a flash and he felt the cold breath again.  They were following him. He was terrified to turn around.  The whistling of the kettle alerted Ethan he has forgotten his Grammy’s tea. He closes his eyes and turns around. When he opens them he sees an empty hallway. In the kitchen he opens the drawer for a spoon.   There is something shining gold where only silver should be. It has a scoop for a head and fingers sculpted around the long handle. In the center of the scoop is painted an eye. 

Ethan jumps back and knocks over the sugar bowl.

“ETHAN? Everything alright in there?” asks Grammy

She hobbles to the kitchen and tells Ethan to go lay down.  When he gets to his room the spoon is sitting on his bed and the voice again demands he give up his eyes. Ethan shrinks into a corner of his room on the floor with his eyes closed and his hands over his ears whimpering.

“There will only be slight discomfort,” the voice said nurturingly for the thousandth time…with its cold breath on Ethan’s neck.

Ethan opens his eyes. This time he sees an Ocularian on his bed holding the golden spoon with dagger long fingernails. Its face is covered with black shiny feathers and its beak peers out of a grungy hood.   Eyeballs are hanging from the cloak’s sleeves, bobbing into each other as they dangled from their optic nerves.

He grabbed the spoon from the claw and slipped it under his eyelid.

The Ocularian arrived through the window of the Tower of Rituals. It floated across the room to the sorcerer Veteris, who sat in the marble tub. As the Ocularian detached the last of Ethan’s eyes from his cloak sleeve, the eyeball bounced among the 99 other green eyes surrounding Veteris’s naked body, all turned in different directions as if avoiding the view. One by one the hideous squelching of an eyeball was heard as he rubbed the aqueous fluid all over his wrinkled loose skin.  Soon his youthful appearance would return.

Ethan sat blind, wrapped in cold wet sheets in a ceramic tub in the asylum. Mona looked upon him with  a tear falling from her one good eye.

If that wasn’t terrif-eye-ing enough for you, then tale number three is certain to leave you paralyzed with fear as it reminds us to never underestimate a kitten in the dark.

Tale number one.  Perhaps a ballerina isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

“Carillon a Musique” by John White

I haven’t always been a ballerina figurine atop a music box. There was a time that I wanted to be a real one.  The circumstances leading up to my transformation from Caroline to carillon might be of some interest to you, dear reader. Please indulge me if you will in the telling of my tale.

I met my uncle Josef when we moved to Switzerland from Austria when I was but a girl of twelve years-old. Josef was a master of watch making and repair, and my mother used to visit him frequently, have coffee, and browse in his shop for pocket watches for my father. I often would join her in the visits as his store was on the way to dance classes from the school I attended.

Uncle Josef had recently grown interested in the art of making music boxes, and loved to show them to me and play me their beautiful songs. We would wind up the wonderful boxes and I would dance about, pretending to be a ballerina, as the music played. This activity seemed to delight both he and my mother as much as it did me.

My parents often travelled due to my father’s business. They would leave me at home with the governess so I could continue to go to school and take my cherished dance classes. One day after school, my uncle was there to meet me in the office. The anxious looks on his and the abbess’ faces told me something bad had happened.  He told me that he had very unfortunate news for me. My parents had perished while traveling back from a short trip to German. I was later horrified to find out that the carriage in which they were traversing the mountains had become disconnected from the horses and they had plunged over the cliff.

As my uncle was my only remaining immediate family ( my grandparents had passed away from various causes, my father’s brothers had died in the Franco-Prussian War, and my mother and uncle’s sister was locked away in an asylum), he was allowed to be my guardian and soon afterward applied to adopt me. Berta, my governess, was allowed to continue to care for my wellbeing, and after the initial shock of the incident we slowly started to live a happy life.

My father’s business had been quite successful, and as such, I was left a substantial inheritance. As my uncle was so good to me, I freely shared my wealth with him, and in turn this allowed him to expand his shop for watch making and building music boxes, as well as enlarging his storefront. Within a few years he was the largest builder and distributor of music boxes in all of Europe.

In the following years my diligence in practicing ballet was beginning to pay off and I started to perform in local productions. Soon, I was given the lead as Farfalla in Le papillon, and finally, just after my 17^th birthday, my big break came with the role as Odette in the Swiss premier of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. As a gift for my success, my uncle made a carillon with a depiction of a ballerina that looked just like me. He told me Berta had composed the music that was played on the roll. While I was flattered by the gesture, I found the music too disturbing and I rarely played it.

The interactions between Uncle Josef and Berta, due to my raising (or so I thought at the time), enabled them to become very close and their relationship later blossomed into marriage. As I became older the necessity for Berta to watch over me diminished and my governess turned Aunt along with my Uncle were allowed time to travel. On a rather lengthy trip to France they came under the spell of Eliphas Levi, a well-known occultist and writer. They were in frequent correspondence with him until his death just a few months following their acquaintance.

One day while searching for writing paper in my uncle’s office, I came across a letter from M. Levi that had fallen beneath the large oak desk. The letter contained what appeared to be a spell for the transformation of living energy into an inanimate object. Mortified, I carefully positioned the paper back on the floor where I had found it and hastily made an exit in the direction of my rooms. As I crossed the entryway I encountered my uncle who inquired why I was leaving in such a hurry. “I…I was just looking for more stationary on which to write a letter”, I exclaimed nervously.

“I see”, he replied, “but you don’t appear to have taken any with you”.

“I just realized I am about to be late for a dance rehearsal and need to collect my things before I go”, I blurted out.

He squinted his eyes suspiciously but moved aside so that I could continue down the hall. “Well, we wouldn’t want that now would we?” he commented, entered into his office, and shut the door firmly behind him.

My relationship with my guardians began to feel more strained and distant around this time, but I wasn’t quite sure why. We were never at odds, but it seemed as though the warmth of emotions we had once felt had begun to grow colder. Perhaps it had to do with their dedicated studies of what I perceived as the arcane arts? If only I knew then what I was about to find out in the weeks to come.

With my aunt and uncle joining me I had an extended visit to Great Britain for performances with the ballet troupe. On returning home to Zurich I began to feel unwell and my uncle’s good friend, Doctor Stoecklin, diagnosed me with scarlet fever. While I was required to say in bed I began to receive many letters of encouragement from people who had admired my ballet performances and, for a time, these cheered me, but regrettably my health both physically and mentally began to again deteriorate. As my illness progressed the duration of my mortality soon came into question. With eyes full of concern about my declining condition, Uncle Josef and Aunt Berta requested I sign a Will bequeathing to them the remainder of my inheritance if I should pass away so that it would not be claimed by the State. I was happy to comply as they for several years had made my wellbeing their priority. My uncle’s cherished friend and attorney, Mr. Muller, served as notary and soon the paperwork was in order. It was about this time their attitude toward me appeared to change.

Uncle Josef and Aunt Berta started to sit with me far less frequently, and a nurse was brought in to check on me from time to time and to attend to my needs. I awoke one morning to find my music box sitting on the table beside me. My aunt, in a rare moment of attendance, assured me it was to raise my spirits and to remind me of my dancing, but the intent felt much more nefarious somehow. Doctor Stoecklin came to draw a vial of blood for what he said was testing, but I heard him whispering softly with my uncle in the hallway and I saw the vial exchange hands.

The next day Uncle Josef came to collect the music box as he stated he had a batch of fresh pink paint mixed up to paint the tutu on the ballerina. I weakly smiled at him and told him to take his time. Secretly I was glad to see it gone from my room. Later Uncle Josef brought the box back with Aunt Berta, Mr. Muller, and Dr. Stoecklin in attendance. The doctor and uncle’s attorney lit some candles and incense they had brought with them. They assured me they were there to say healing prayers for me. Even in my weakened state I found their convictions unconvincing. Uncle opened the book that Aunt Berta had carried in with her and the quartet started chanting what sounded like an incantation in Latin. Soon, a soothing warmth came over my body and my eyes slowly closed. From what sounded to be far away I heard the clicking sound of the music box being wound and then released to play its song. That song that my aunt had composed that begat me with fear! The warmth drained from me and a sense of dread took its place. I felt myself rising up from my body and floating across the room to over the table where the music box was slowly losing its rhythm and melody. As it came to an end I abruptly felt myself falling, falling, falling,… I attempted to jerk myself awake but was held rigidly in place. The sensation of having a body was with me, but I was entirely unable to move. I heard my aunt laugh and then exclaim, “The transformation was successful!” I was able to sense the whole of the room and its inhabitants, but without the normal senses felt as a human. I perceived a feeling of accomplishment from the doctor and the lawyer, and manic mood of glee from my aunt, and, strangely, an aura of sadness from my uncle. “Soon all the world will desire to own their very own Caroline Carillon” cackled my aunt as she wound the box containing my soul and played the song again and again. The men smiled grimly and started to prepare my body for a funeral.

Aunt Berta’s prophecy came to fruition and the recreation of my music box, created to honor the promising ballerina who had tragically died at a tender age of 17 from scarlet fever, became the desire of all who heard it and saw it dance. The original box sat on the mantle above the fireplace in the music room of aunt and uncle’s palatial mansion. There I keep watch on all that goes on around me. Like the mysterious death of my uncle in his sleep, or the horrible murders of Doctor Shoecklin and Mr. Muller by the as yet unfound serial killer. As for my aunt, well, she sleeps little, and is vigilant in her observations of the goings-on around her for she knows she is next. Here my dear aunt, let me play you a song.

Tale number two.   Something is bugging someone.

“Oranges and Lemons” by Bonnie Brunner

The photo in her hands struck Arabella with fright and intrigue. Inside the black mat, sat a Victorian woman in a rocking chair, on a patterned carpet. Next to her were a side table and an ornate lamp with hanging beads, butterflies, and flowers on its glass shade. It was hard to determine what kind of flowers, being it was a black and white picture. However, it was very clear that the woman’s head had been stitched back on, and that pupils were painted onto her eyelids.

Whoever propped her up for this postmortem photograph highlighted a heart shaped locket in her palm, with its chain dangling from her lap. The locket was open, but too small to see what was inside. It was the perfect occasion for Arabella to use her magnifying glass.

She rummaged through the satchel beside her on the conservatory’s sofa. As she wrapped her fingers around its handle, the photograph slipped off her lap, landing face down on the parquet floor. Magnifier in hand, she bent down to retrieve the family history. It appeared there was more to the story of this relative. There was handwriting on the back.

She picked it up and read:

“Oranges and lemons

                                    Say the bells of St. Clements

                                    You owe me five farthings,

                                    Say the bells of St. Martins.

                                    Here comes a candle to light you to bed.

                                    Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

                                    Chip chop chip chop

                                    the last man is dead! Henrietta is dead!”

Stunned, she turned the photo back over to officially meet her relative, Henrietta. Arabella lowered her magnifying glass to view the contents of Henrietta’s palm. There inside the heart shaped locket nestled a music box.

Her concentration was broken by Willie opening the French doors leading to the garden.

“Mum wants to know when you will be done riffling through Grammy’s old stuff, and join us in the yard for some lemonade?”

“Lemonade” stole her focus. She flipped the photo over and reread the words “Oranges and Lemons.”

“Arabella?!” Willie questioned louder.

“I’ll be right along in a moment,” she assured him.

Arabella entered the garden to find her mother and brother sitting in those cruel, white, wrought iron chairs. She hated this furniture ever since her childhood. Refusing to let her bum be tortured, she spent more time on the grass looking at bugs; the beginnings of her Entomological studies.

She poured herself a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and sat on the ground.

“Good heavens!  You are sporting Willie’s knickers!”   Arabella’s mother said with feigned shock.    “I suppose I should be thankful since you are sitting on the ground like a young boy.”

“The year is 1927.  Intelligent women are wearing trousers,” she informed her mother.

Arabella pulled her magnifier from her pocket and started observing a rare line formation of Pine Processionary Caterpillars, obviously headed for the Scots Pines for a pupation site. She made a mental note to write this in her journal. She will excitedly share this with her professor, Edith Patch, when she attends her lecture on aphid research.

“Willie! Don’t interrupt their formation!” Shouted Arabella.

“Don’t be such an anorak! I was only having a look-see.”

“Arabella! You didn’t leave your studies in the States to wallow around in the grass! Have you rid us of the dreadful invasion of the horrific pests in your Grammy’s room, God rest her soul.”

“Their called ‘booklice’ mum, and I have removed all the detritus that were the cause. Lilian should go through with some vinegar and wipe down the walls and moulding to prevent the mold from returning. Leave the windows open for a bit, and perhaps sprinkle some talcum powder round the sill. For certain get Chauncy up on the roof to mend that leak.”

“That’s very boldy of you to spout orders to your elders.”

“You asked,” smarted Arabella. “Oh and I sorted out some of Grammy’s memorabilia from the infestation as you requested.” (with an emphasis on ‘requested’) “I have a Walk-Over shoe box with some of her effects I’d like to hang onto, if that’s alright?”

Her mother sniffed and dabbed the corner of her eye with her kerchief and gave an emotional hand gesture as a yes. Arabella knew this wasn’t the time to bring up the photograph. Her mother was in a delicate state from Grammy’s recent passing. So she spent the next hour indulging her mother in gossip about the neighbors and about the life of a young woman studying “crawly things” at the University of Maine.

Finally the sun lowered and she was able to excuse herself.  She gathered the shoe box from the sofa and went up to her bedroom. Once there, she carefully took each item out of the timeworn ox and laid them out on the coverlet.   Of course, there was the photograph, then a curious leather pouch, and a red velvet ribbon with a key attached. She left the handful of scattered hair pins, a compact mirror, and a silver hairbrush in the box, but the last item interested her. It was a lock of auburn hair.

She picked it up, pinched between her pointer finger and thumb and asked herself, “Henrietta?”

Then she carefully laid it at the top of Henrietta’s head.

Surveying the items on the bed, she chose the smooth, leather pouch. Inside she found a deck of cards, tarot cards. Arabella fanned them out on the coverlet.  On the last card was an image of a Polyommatus icarus. The Common Blue Butterfly, colored in her favorite shade of blue. The card was marked “The Fool” at the bottom.

She lifted the card. “The Fool” side was smooth and the back felt strange. She turned it over and scratched into the card was “Your common life will change.”  She glanced down at Henrietta and felt a chill run up her spine.

This box was leading down a path she had trepidation to follow, but felt compelled to find the end.

Her eyes squeezed tightly closed. It was morning and Lilian had flung open the drapes.

“Go on, get a move on.  Just because you’re a ‘guest’, doesn’t mean you get sleeping privileges. And Miss Bella, I found a wooden box of your Grammy’s while I was wiping things down.  It’s on the console table outside the room.  I couldn’t open it. You’ll use that glass of yours to check for them buggers? Chauncy can burn it”

“A box? Yes, of course,” how could I have missed a box?

Arabella jumped into her knickers and in no time was moving the flat, decorative wooden box from the hallway console onto the bed springs. Lilian insisted on getting rid of the mattress. It wasn’t due to the booklice, but rather the fact that Grammy soiled it a bit when she passed away.

She got on her knees thinking that she could easily open the latch.  Lilian usually provides excuses to get out of extra work, but this time she was correct, the blasted thing wouldn’t open. Arabella felt a bit of a twit seeing that there was a lock on it.

She couldn’t have had the key in her hand any faster if she could fly. Swinging from the red ribbon gripped in her hand, the little gold key danced down the long hallway.  But she turned too quickly and smacked into the console knocking over the lamp.

“Arabella! What is going on up there?! This isn’t a playground! And you aren’t a child!” shouted her mother. “Arabella!”

“Yes, mum. Sorry, mum. Just moving things in Grammy’s roooom!” she shouted back.

She was sprawled out on her stomach, but the ribbon was still in her grasp.  She pushed herself up and entered Grammy’s room.  She left the lamp for Lilian to struggle with.

Standing in front of the box, she inserted the key.  She turned it slowly to the right and the lock clicked.  Arabella took a deep breath and slowly opened the lid with hands on either side. Right on top was a thank you note. She opened it:

Dearest Daughter,

I entrust you with this collection of souls. Keep them hidden from Christian eyes. Perform your daily readings for protection. Keep the locket near your heart and be careful of the knowledge you have. You will be judged. Don’t lose your head.

Forever

Your loving mother

Arabella read it twice and stared lost in the flowers on the papered walls.

“The collection!” she realized she hadn’t investigated the rest of the box.

A white silk cloth was nestled where the note had rested. When she pulled, the cloth revealed a shadow box. Under the glass was a cushioned cemetery for the pinned remains of at least twenty, butterfly specimens.  These absolutely would have caused suspicion upon Henrietta during her time, she reasoned.  Souls indeed.  Butterflies weren’t just beautiful; they are a subject of mythology and lore.  In her lesson she learned they symbolized the Trinity for Christians.  The final stage, representing the rebirth of Jesus as the butterfly is set free.

Beside the insect exhibit was a small blue packet.   Inside she expected to find another message from the past.  As she slowly pulled out a long chain, she found Henrietta’s heart locket dangling from its end.  Caught up in the breath-taking moment, she put it around her neck.  The silver heart hung low enough that she could see it in her hand.  Her eyes were captured by the sapphire gemstones in the shape of what else, but a tiny butterfly.

She opened it up with anticipation and was delighted to see the music box looking as if were new.  Arabella wound it up, held it to her ear, and listened to the tiny notes that sang that childhood song about the hangings in the town square.

Oranges and Lemons…

“Perhaps my professor isn’t the first woman Entomologist,” she said above the sound of death.

Tale number three.  Never make a deal with the devil.

“The Music Box” by Beth Edgar

Mary was a pretty little girl of ten.   Her family had amassed quite a fortune from the coal industry and she and her father and mother lived in a mansion in a small mining town.   Mary’s grandmother also lived near town and Mary loved going to her grandmother’s big old farmhouse to help her with baking and to go on walks in the garden, but what Mary loved more than anything else was listening to her Grandmother’s stories.   The stories were about mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, great- grandparents, great-great grandparents and so on and so forth.  The tales were many times whimsical, but there were also stories filled with danger and treachery.   Mary loved these stories the best.

Her grandmother even had family heirlooms to substantiate many of these tales.  Among these heirlooms was a walking cane shaped like a snake that belonged to great Uncle Andrew and the book of poetry written by great-great Auntie Alley.    Mary’s favorite heirloom was a music box that had been in the family for generations.  No one knew its exact age, only that it was unique and created by an ancestor in Switzerland many years ago.

The music box was of a deep red wood that was polished to a high sheen.  On the top was an inlaid design of entwined Edelweiss and when the box was opened, a small porcelain figure of a woman would spring up and twirl around to the music.   The music box had 3 discs.  Each of the discs contained a song and two of the discs had writing on them that had worn to the point that the words were illegible.  The first song was bright and lilting.  It gave Mary the feeling of running through a field on a sunlit day.  The second song was bolder and the notes were allowed to ring more.  This made Mary think of a knight coming to a maiden’s rescue.  The last song was desolate and beautiful.  It made every listener yearn to hear more and Mary couldn’t help but do her best waltz around the room while it played.

Mary often begged to listen to the music box and asked why she must always stop the last song before it was finished.  Her Grandmother would pat her head and say “I will explain when you are older, my love.  When you are older”.

Mary made up her own stories about the music box and why she was never allowed to listen to the last song in its entirety.  That is, until the afternoon of her 10^th birthday.   She found herself alone in the parlor with her grandmother.  Mary looked up at her grandmother and said “Grandmother, am I old enough to know the story of the music box?”

Her grandmother gave her smile and sized her up with her sparkling blue eyes and said, “Ah my sweet Mary.  Perhaps you are old enough.”

Her grandmother sat down on the tufted Victorian sofa and patted the spot next to her.   Mary quickly sat down with excited anticipation.   Mary’s grandmother’s voice was lush and soft.  When she told stories they were told as if she were reading poetry.  The words she spoke wove a tale that held the listener enrapt. “My Mary, this story is one of tragedy.  Are you quite sure that you would like for me to go on?”

Mary could hardly contain herself and nodded her head emphatically, yes!

Her Grandmother continued, “Well, my love, the music box represents love found and lost.   The story I am telling you is the same story that my mother told me and has been passed down through the generations.

In a small village in Switzerland a young man from Scotland made his way to a watchmaker’s shop.  The young man pulled out a watch and explained to the watchmaker that he had made it and was looking to apprentice with the watchmaker.   The watchmaker was very impressed with the watch.  Although a bit crude, it was obvious that the young man had much talent.  The watchmaker quickly agreed to take the young man on as an apprentice.   The young man worked diligently and soon surpassed even the watchmaker himself in skills.  As the young man walked out of the shop one day, he spied a beautiful young Swiss girl and fell instantly in love.   Her hair was flaxen blond, her eyes as blue as the cloudless sky and as he listened he could hear that her beautiful laughter caused even the aspens to shake their leaves with happiness.   He walked up to her and told her his name and that he thought her the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.  She blushed at this and shyly turned away.”

Grandmother stopped abruptly, “My goodness!  I do believe our couple would like names.  What do you think, Mary?”

Mary, already quite captivated by the story, shook her head in agreement. “Yes, please.”

“Shall we call our young man Alexander and our fair maiden Dania?”

“Oh yes!  Those are beautiful names.”  Mary said excitedly.

Her Grandmother nodded her head with an approving smile and said “Let us continue then.”

“Alexander felt his heart melt when he observed the sweet, shy blush of Dania.  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a locket that resembled edelweiss.  The petals opened up to reveal a dainty and beautiful watch.  He placed this in Dania’s hand, smiled, and walked joyfully back to the shop.

The next day the shop door slowly opened and Dania shyly peered into the room.  Alexander looked up from his work and a big smile crossed his face at the sight of his angel.   Dania opened the door and walked into the room and towards the counter.   On her arm was a basket that she placed on the counter.   Dania told Alexander that he did not give her a chance to thank him and wasn’t sure if she should accept such a beautiful gift.   Alexander told her that she must accept as he made it for his one true love and he knew that it was Dania.   Dania blushed at such boldness, but also knew in her heart that the words he spoke were true.  She had made a basket of bread and butter and jam for him as a thank you.   Alexander asked if they might share lunch together.    The two made their way to the park laughing and talking the entire way.   They were inseparable from that moment on.

Alexander soon decided that it was time to ask for her hand in marriage.  As a token of his love he would make a grand music box for her.  He would make a music box that had never before been created.  He toiled for many hours on the music box and finally it was ready to be presented to his beautiful Dania.  He walked to her parent’s house and knocked on the door.  He stood nervously waiting for her father to open the door.”

Grandmother stopped and looked down at Mary, “You see, back then a young man must ask the father for the young lady’s hand in marriage.”  Mary nodded her head.

“Alexander told Dania’s father that he would like to speak with him.  Her father ushered him into the parlor.  Alexander sat the music box down on table. He nervously swallowed, looked Dania’s father in the eyes and asked for Dania’s hand in marriage.  He breathed a sigh of relief when her father clapped him on the back, and agreed whole-heartedly to the union.  It just so happened that Dania had heard the knock at the door and had raced downstairs in anticipation that it was her Alexander.   She had followed the two men to the parlor and had been peering and listening from the doorway.  Upon hearing the news, she ran into the room and into Alexander’s arms.  It was such a joyous occasion!   Alexander then took Dania by the hand and led her to the table and presented her with the music box.  She lovingly traced the lines of the inlayed Edelweiss and then clapped her hands with joy when the lid was opened and the beautiful ceramic figurine, that looked much like her, popped up and started twirling to the music.”

At this point, Mary’s Grandmother stood up and walked to the other room and then returned with the music box.

“Mary, this is the song she heard when she first opened the box.”  With that, she opened the lid, the figurine rose and she placed the disc for the first song.   After several seconds she closed the lid and went on with her story.

“The wedding was a glorious occasion!  The town came out en masse.  There were lovely flowers and tables of food and music and dancing.  Such happiness and goodwill had not been seen in many ages.”  Grandmother opened the music box, removed the first disc and replaced it with the second disc.  “This was one of the songs that was played at the wedding”

Grandmother placed the lid back on the music box and her face became somber as she looked at Mary and said, “The music box contained three discs.  The first two discs had music assigned to them.  It was Alexander’s intent that the third disc would be a song representing their married life.  He and Dania would choose this song together.  Alas, it was not through bliss that the music for the third disc was chosen, but through tragedy and want. “

Alexander and Dania’s happiness was short-lived.   Less than a year as man and wife and beautiful Dania was stricken with an illness.  No amount of medicine, or prayer, or love could stop her from slowly wasting away.   Alexander, at his wit’s end, decided that his only choice was to visit the devil’s bridge and give whatever it took to save the life of his beautiful Dania.   Tears welled up in his eyes as he walked up to the bridge.   Clutched in his arms was the object that held the most meaning and value to he and Dania; the music box.   He stood in the center of the bridge and begged the devil to spare his bride and sat down the music box as an offering.   He collapsed to the ground, his body wracked with grief.  It was at that moment that the devil himself arose.   Alexander’s tear stained eyes grew wide with fear.    The Devil’s laugh shook the bridge and he pointed at Alexander.”

Grandmother puffed up her chest and took a deep breath and spoke in a low growly voice as she was reciting the devil’s words, “The devil said,

“Your music box does not interest me in the least, but, I am amused at your offering.  You will find the third disc of your music box now contains a song.  MY SONG!  Play this music for your Dania.  Now leave!!!!” 

Alexander fumbled the music box back into his arms and ran to Dania’s bedside.   He explained to Dania’s family what had happened and that he could save her!!!!   Dania’s family was aghast and tried to stop him, but he was desperate and crazed and ran them out of the room and locked the door.   Dania’s eyes were closed.  He walked over to the bedside table where he had laid the music box and opened the lid.  He placed the third disc in the music box.   The music began playing.”

Mary’s grandmother removed the second disc and replaced it with the third disc.  Mary’s eyes were big as saucers, but she could hardly contain herself as she waited for the story to continue.

“The song was dark and beguiling and Dania opened her eyes.   Alexander was overcome with joy, but as the song’s last note trailed off, Dania closed her eyes, never to open them again.   Alexander was so distraught!  He pulled the disc from the music box and threw it against the wall!  He flung open the bedroom door and ran back to the bridge to confront the devil!   No words, regardless of anger or pleading, could raise him.  Alexander climbed the rail and jumped to his death in the cold water below.”

Grandmother closed the lid on the music box and continued her story.

“Dania’s family collected the third disc and kept the music box.  Not only because of the love it represented, but also for the evil it contained.   So you see, my child, we are the guardians of the music box.   We can play the first two songs whenever we wish, but the last song must never be played in its entirety.”

Mary felt shocked and excited and a sense of great responsibility knowing that her family, and Mary herself,  were entrusted with such an important job.

The days changed to months and Mary’s life continued as that of any young girl until one fateful day.  Mary’s dad came bursting into the room.  “Mary, we must go to the hospital immediately.  Your mother and grandmother were involved in a horrible crash!”   Mary and her father quickly got into the car and raced to the hospital.  Mary was so frightened.  She had never experienced anything like this.  Her father was quiet and intensely staring forward as he drove.  A small tear sneaked its way from his eye and slowly made its way down his face.  He quickly wiped it away.  Mary reached out and softly touched her father’s hand.   By the time they had made it to the hospital it was too late.   That day Mary lost both her mother and grandmother.

After the funerals, her grandmother’s house was to be sold.   Mary followed her father through her grandmother’s house.  She came upon the heirlooms and told her father that she must have them.   She explained that she was the guardian.   Her father looked at her with loving eyes and promised that each and every one would be moved to their home.

Within a year Mary’s father had remarried.  Mary’s stepmother was an aristocrat from a nearby city.  Before the marriage she treated Mary as if she was her own child, but after the marriage, her true colors became evident.

Mary was sent to stay with cousins while her father and stepmother took a grand honeymoon to Europe.  Mary’s relatives were kind to her, but she felt so lost and alone.

When she was told that her father and stepmother would be returning, Mary was exuberant.  Exuberant until she returned home.  “Daddy!  Daddy!”  Mary called as she ran from the doorway and through the great hall looking for her father.  “Daddy!  Da…”

“Shut your mouth!!!” click, click, click went the heels of Mary’s stepmother’s shoes as she walked with a small yet determined stride into the hall.  “Your father had to go out on business and I do NOT want to hear another peep out of you!  Do you understand?!!!”  She said through clenched teeth.   Mary’s spirits wilted.  She hung her head.  “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!!!!”

Mary raised her eyes with her head still tilted down and let out a meek “Yes.”

“Good.  Now go to your room until dinner is called.”   Her stepmother said as she smoothed down her pencil skirt and then turned and click, click clicked her way out of the room.

Mary stood for a moment, bewildered.   She then raced up the stairs to her room where she buried her head in her pillow and cried herself to sleep.

Each week her stepmother grew increasingly cruel.   “I don’t know why you don’t just die.”  Her stepmother said.  “No one wants you around here.  Not even your father.  Why just the other day he told me what a burden you had ALWAYS been.”  Mary knew in her heart that her father would never utter these words, but when these hurtful words are heard over and over again the mind begins to have difficulty separating truth from fiction.

Mary became more and more withdrawn.   The only solace she found was remembering the stories that her grandmother told her.   She would spend hours writing down the stories and making illustrations for them.

“Mary!” her stepmother called. “MARY!   I need you to come down here now!”  Mary closed her book of drawings and slowly headed downstairs.   She dragged her fingertip down the mahogany stair rail and looked down as she made her way to her stepmother’s voice.   When she got to the last stair her stepmother grabbed her by the arm and jerked her violently towards her.  “Did I tell you to stay out of our room?”  “DID I?!” she said as she shook Mary.

“Y-y-y-yes”   Mary said in a quiet, scared voice.

“Y-Y-Y-Yes”   her stepmother mimicked.  “Then why did you go into my room and break my mirror?”   She snapped.

“I didn’t break your mirror”   Mary replied.

“You didn’t break my mirror.  I guess it just broke itself.”  She squeezed Mary’s tiny shoulder.

“Y-y-your dog was in the bedroom.  Maybe he knocked it off.”

“You little witch!!   You KNOW you broke it out of spite!!!   You like to break things?  How about I break something of yours?”   She slid her hand down to Mary’s wrist and dragged her up the stairs and into Mary’s room.   She released her grip and looked Mary in the face and then began looking around the room.   She slowly walked around the room with her index finger tapping her lip in thought.   How about I break this?”  She grabbed the cane and held it up to Mary.

“NO”  Mary cried. She ran towards her stepmother with arms outreached, but her stepmother took the cane and busted it into two pieces.   Mary stood, horrified and too numb to move or speak.  Tears rolled down her face.

“And that’s what happens when you don’t do as I say.”  With that, her stepmother flung down the two pieces of the cane, brushed her hands together as one would do after finishing a task and click, click, clicked out of the room.

Mary, tears blurring her vision, lovingly picked up the two pieces of the cane and tried in vain to put them back together as if this horrible moment had never occurred.

When Mary’s father got home later that week he walked up to Mary’s room.   He spied the cane that had been bound together with rags and then his eyes went to Mary who was drawing at her desk.  She barely raised her head when her father spoke to her.  “Mary, Catherine told me that you became so angry with her that you broke her mirror and then came upstairs and broke the cane.   I know it is difficult having a new mother, but Catherine loves you and I need for us to be a family.”  He touched Mary’s shoulder.

Mary cringed.  Stopped drawing and then looked up at her father and spat in an angry voice,   “I did NOT break the mirror.  Her dog broke it and then SHE broke my cane.”

“Mary!  I will not have you placing blame on others!!  If you cannot get along in this household then I will be forced to send you to private school!”  With that, her father turned and brusquely walked out the door.

Mary sat at her desk.  A single tear fell from her eye and onto the drawing paper.

As they sat at dinner that night Mary’s father looked at her and noticed a bruise on her wrist.  This was the same wrist that her stepmother used to drag her up the stairs.   He glanced at Catherine and then back at Mary.

Once again, her father was off again on a business trip.   Mary happened to be walking by her father’s study and overheard her stepmother talking, “Yes, yes.  Things are going quite well except for that horrid little child of his.  The sooner I get her out of the way, the better.  Ha Ha!  If murder were only that easy I would have done it months ago.”   Mary let out a tiny gasp and her stepmother turned.  “I need to let you go.  It seems I have a little mealy-mouthed eavesdropper.”  She slowly put down the phone and then looked menacingly at Mary.   She walked towards Mary, pulled back her hand and slapped her hard across the face.   “Don’t even think about saying anything to your father.  He won’t believe you anyway.  He’s going to have you sent to a girl’s school.”  She shoved Mary aside and walked out of the room.

Mary returned to her room, scared and alone.   She began talking to her grandmother and mother.  She wished more than anything that they would please let her know what to do.  She told them that she was so afraid.

Mary could hear the doorknob turn and the door opening.   Her stepmother opened the door and came into her room. “I’m so afraid”  her stepmother mimicked.  “Are we afraid of the big, bad stepmother?   Is the stepmother going to do something to hurt us?”  By this time Catherine had made it to the desk where Mary was sitting.   She looked down at the drawings and picked one up.  Mary reached to grab her arm but she quickly turned and held the drawing up.  “What a simple little girl you are.   You can’t even draw let alone write.”   With that she tore the drawing in half and let the pieces slide out of her hands onto the floor.  Mary had reached her breaking point and let out a growl and ran towards her stepmother shoving her against the wall.    Her stepmother shoved back and little Mary went hurtling towards the bed railing.  She lay crumpled on the floor with the wind knocked out of her.   Her stepmother walked over to the drawings, gathered them up and headed downstairs.  That night, the fire burned brightly with all of the artwork that Mary had poured her heart and soul into.

Her father returned the following evening and made his way up to Mary’s room.   This time she was sitting at her desk staring blankly at the clear desk top. “Mary?”  her father said.  Mary did not move.  “Mary, where are all of your beautiful drawings?”   He inquired as he reached to touch her shoulder.  Mary flinched with pain at his touch.   Her father pulled down the neck of Mary’s top only to reveal a horrible bruise running across the child’s back.  “Sweetheart!  How did this happen?”  He said with alarm.  Mary merely glanced up at her father with blank eyes.

Her father abruptly turned and headed downstairs.  Mary could hear the argument ensuing between her father and stepmother.  Mary walked to the music box and brought it down to her night stand.  She needed to drown out the sound of the fight occurring downstairs.  She placed in the first disc and then the second disc.  Downstairs she heard a thud and then the click, click, click of her stepmother’s shoes as they made their way from the study, through the hall and up the stairs.  Mary removed the second disc and put in the third disc.   Click, click, click came the heels.  The music played on and Mary turned to see the door handle slowly turn and the door fly open.  At the door stood her stepmother.  She was covered in blood and holding the fireplace poker.  She slowly made her way towards Mary.    The music continued to play.  Mary did not move.  Her stepmother raised the poker and prepared to strike the child.  As the last note rung from the music box her stepmother dropped the poker, clutched her throat as if she were being choked, and gave a garbled cry as she looked pleadingly at Mary.  Mary stood stone faced and watched as her stepmother fell to the ground.   Mary then slowly closed the music box.  As she was placing the lid down, she caught a movement from the corner of her eye.  She turned to see a figure of a beautiful young lady with golden hair and blue eyes.  She looked at Mary and Mary stared in wonder at this beautiful and seemingly transparent image.   The figure glided towards Mary.  She placed her finger on her lips as if kissing it and then placed the finger gently on Mary’s lips.   Mary stood silently looking at the figure that now moved back slightly.  She gave Mary a beautiful smile and then mouthed the word “danke” and disappeared.

As Mary stood in silent shock at the events leading up to this moment, her father came staggering into the room and grabbed Mary into his arms.  “Oh my sweet Mary!” He sobbed “How can you ever forgive me?”   Mary gently touched his bleeding head and threw her arms around his neck and cried.