Echoes from the Grave

My grandmother's music box stopped playing the day she died, but last night I

heard its melody drifting from her old room. I crept upstairs, each step creaking

like bones breaking. The hallway stretched impossibly long, wallpaper peeling in strips that looked

like skin. Her door stood ajar, revealing the antique music box on her dresser,

its tiny ballerina spinning to that haunting waltz. But something was wrong.

The ballerina's porcelain face had changed. It wore my grandmother's expression from

her final moments, mouth twisted in silent agony. I reached to close the lid,

but my hand passed right through it. The melody grew louder, more distorted,