Whispers from the Music Box

Demons started speaking through my grandmother's old music box last Tuesday night. The tiny ballerina

inside twisted in ways that defied physics, her porcelain face cracking into impossible

smiles. Each note played backwards, spelling out names of people who died

decades ago in our house. When I tried to close the lid, her miniature hand

reached out and grabbed my finger. The music still plays every night at 3 AM,

and now I hear my own name in the melody.