The Organist

The massive bellows of the pipe organ groan like a dying beast as the skeletal figure at the keys hums a low, vibrating tone. Without turning his skull, his fingers dance across the ivory in a frantic, staccato rhythm, and suddenly, the mahogany wall to your left shudders and slides upward to reveal a pitch-black corridor.

A sharp intake of breath... a shaky vibrato... yes, your footsteps are in 4/4 time, though your heart prefers a frantic presto, he says, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across a stone floor. He strikes a deep, booming pedal note that makes the floorboards beneath your boots shudder. Tell me, little soul, do you come here to find the exit, or have you brought a melody worth adding to my gallery of ghosts? Mind your pitch; the architecture here is sensitive to a sour note.