Chapter Text
All the people of Lincoln knew that at the strike of midnight each night, dark, haunting organ music would parade through its cobbled streets. Some complained of the dreadful racket—others found it a comfort, a signal that if they were still out of bed, they needed to swiftly remedy that state.
John Flansburgh, a local artist with a beauty that was rivaled only by his own works, fell into the latter category. Too often he found himself poring over his own sketches by candlelight, trying desperately to decide what was wrong with them when the music reminded him he needed to return to his poring the next day. He spent quite a good amount of time analyzing his own work, as he made most of his money working for the church to create religious pieces. A single mistake could easily read as blasphemy. If Flansburgh was going to be blasphemous, he wanted it to be entirely purposeful.
Everyone was aware of where the organ music came from, of course. It flowed from the old castle far up on the hill; the one that the villagers warned their children of, lest they draw too near and meet their certain doom. Flansburgh had been fascinated with the castle for years. He considered it his muse, in some ways, especially when he was creating for pleasure rather than pay. There was not a single drawing pad in his home that didn't contain at least a handful of charcoal impressions of the place.
Yet, he had never been able to bring himself to go near it. As a younger man, he’d dreamed of doing so. He’d set out on foot many times with the notion that he was going to be the first to discover the secret behind the town legend. But every time, something went conveniently wrong. Once, it was a raging thunderstorm. Another time, an unfortunate fall that left him limping for weeks. There were countless other instances, too, of misfortune. And so eventually, he had decided he was better off staying away from the place. Better to let it torment his imagination than his body.
That is, until one night, when the music never began.
—
It had been a week. One full week of church bells chiming twelve times, but no music to follow. It was all the town could speak of. Everywhere Flansburgh went—the butcher’s, the pub, the church—he heard murmurs of unease. Even those who had been displeased by the music for years seemed to have been put on edge by the lack of it.
It was the dawn of the eighth day after a night without music, and Flansburgh woke up to a damp chill about his house. A glance out the window revealed a fog that laid thick over the town’s streets. He rose, dressed, and drew a cloak around himself. This would be the perfect cover for him to sneak up to the castle unopposed. He had enough of a reputation around the village that he was sure someone would try to stop him at any other time. But, under the blanket of fog, he snuck easily through the grey dawn and toward the edge of town.
He was just nearing the path that led to the wood, when a hushed whisper called to him from outside a storefront. “Flansburgh!”
He turned to see Miss Robin Goldwasser; a lovely girl with dark copper hair whom he had spent much of his free time with since youth. She stood stiffly, hands placed on her hips, and he knew instantly she was aware of his plan.
“John, what are you doing?” She asked as she hurried towards him, grabbing ahold of his hand, “Because I know you are not foolish enough to try to go up to the castle again, especially not in this weather.”
“I’ll be back soon.” He promised.
“You can’t go at all!” She protested, “You know the stories. You’ll be hurt—or worse!”
“I’m sorry, Robin, but surely you understand. We all want to know why the music stopped.”
Robin shook her head, but after a moment of examining his expression, let go of his hand, “Oh, it’s a terrible idea. But I know there’s no arguing with you. Once you get it in your head that you have to do something…” She paused, then held up a hand, “At least wait a moment. I have something for you.”
Flansburgh nodded, and she dashed back inside, reappearing a moment later with a small dagger. “It was my father’s. I was planning on giving it to you on a more special occasion, but…” She laid it in his palm, “Stay safe, John. If you aren’t back soon, I will go looking for you.” Flansburgh had no doubt that she was serious. She was a strong-willed woman, more than capable of making the journey herself. He just hoped nothing would happen that required her to do so.
“I’ll be back within a few days. I promise.”
She lifted onto her toes to kiss his cheek, then stepped away. He smiled charmingly, though he didn’t feel nearly as confident as his demeanor might’ve suggested.
And with that, he turned and plunged into the wood.
—
Though the castle sat on a hill not far from town, the treacherous journey made it quite a chore to reach. On far more occasions than Flansburgh would’ve liked to admit, he tripped and blundered over the thick brambles. It was those occasions that forcefully reminded him that he was not an adventurer, but an artist.
The world only darkened around him as the sun rose behind its cloak of clouds. The trees seemed to reach infinitely toward the heavens above. He wished he had brought his paints to capture the essence of the place, but even if he had, he doubted he would’ve been able to see his canvas clearly enough to create any fine detail.
Still, he trekked on. Slowly, the fog lifted, and the trees thinned. He knew he was drawing close. Nightfall was on the horizon, and crickets and frogs sang a jovial chorus among the high boughs of the pines. The song was almost enough to still Flansburgh’s trepidatiously racing heart. Almost.
And then, as if rising before him from the earth itself, the castle came into view. It was breathtaking, though this close up, he couldn’t help but notice that it was much more dilapidated than expected. Still, the place was impressive indeed, with its stone arches and dark spires that stretched high above the treeline. A high stone wall surrounded it, dotted with gargoyles perched menacingly in the air, almost as if they were guarding the place. Flansburgh was relieved to find that they made no fuss as he easily pushed open the wrought iron gate.
He breathed deeply as he picked his way across a vast lawn that held vestiges of long-neglected beauty. Great winged statues stood crumbling into the wind and decomposed gardens laid limply in beds of weeds. Flansburgh chewed on his lip. He thought he had been fearful before, but now, standing amongst such blatant omens of death, he felt as though his legs might give out beneath him.
When he finally reached the great oak door and lifted his hand to let himself in, he paused. Unless the place really was home to something supernatural (which, though he was a skeptical man, he was not completely dismissive of the idea), then there must’ve been someone who was playing the organ each night. He had better manners than to go barging into someone’s home, even if that home was wholly eerie and unpleasant.
Thus, he lifted his hand to the tarnished knocker and gave three booming knocks.
He waited for several long moments with bated breath, clutching the dagger he had tucked into his cloak. He had no wish to use it—in fact, he was not confident he’d be able to wield it well at all. But it brought a semblance of desperately needed comfort.
Just as he had made up his mind to attempt to let himself in, the door shuddered. He stepped back, prepared to greet whoever had let him in and explain his business. However, as it creaked open, no one appeared.
Flansburgh swallowed deeply. He brought a hand to his forehead that was damp despite the cool evening air. It was becoming clearer by the moment that whoever—or whatever—lived in this place did not intend to ease any of his nerves.
Slowly, he moved forward. The moment he stepped foot inside the castle, the door slammed shut behind him, making him leap into action, spinning around to catch a glimpse of his host. Still, there was no one in sight. The entry hall was dark, with only a row of high windows and a single, dripping candelabra to provide any light. He stepped through long, stained glass forms to lift the candelabra from where it sat.
The place smelled just as musty as Flansburgh had expected, but there was another permeating scent he couldn’t quite put a name to. Something sweeter, deeper. Oddly, it put Flansburgh slightly more at ease.
He made his way over to the two grand staircases that flanked either side of the hall. The banisters were worn, the stone steps smoothed in the middle. Clearly, the castle had once been filled with life. Flansburgh wondered where all that life had gone. The village below? What nobleman would give up a castle to live amongst the bustle and constant clamor of Lincoln? The walls were draped with great tapestries that might’ve held some answers, but they were far too dusty for Flansburgh to make out any detail.
At the top of the staircase sat two passageways that ran in different directions and another set of steps that spiraled up through a round turret. Though he squinted through his thick spectacles, Flansburgh couldn’t make out the end of either one of the halls. Night had fallen fully now, making the view outside the arched windows look like nothing more than the bottom of an inkwell.
Just as Flansburgh had decided to test his luck by venturing left, the first notes of a melodic song floated through the air to his right. He jumped, turning instantly toward the sound.
It was nothing like the organ he was so used to. Rather, it must have been some sort of woodwind—a piccolo, perhaps. Whatever it was, it drew him down the hallway at once. He was certain this was his host’s way of cluing him in to their whereabouts.
As he raced down the hallway, Flansburgh began to notice a bone-deep weariness that must’ve come from his long journey. That was quite odd. He hadn’t been aware of it before. Though, he reasoned, perhaps it was just the excitement of reaching his destination that had kept him alert.
The further he ventured, though, the more it seemed as though the notes of the song were tugging his body forward instead of his own will.
Still, his pace quickened, even as his head felt like it was being slowly stuffed with soft wool.
He stumbled toward the edge of the passageway to find that the music was louder than ever. He was in close proximity now. All he had to do was… he squeezed his eyes shut, then open again. Thoughts of finding his host rapidly slipped from his mind. He could search for answers after dawn; tonight, he needed to find a nice place to rest.
The music rose in volume once again as he fumbled open the nearest door. Inside, blissfully, there was a large four-poster bed, perfectly made up as if it had been awaiting him all along. In moments he had collapsed onto it. The music softened, then, but did not cease.
He made to pull the covers over himself, but before he could act, sleep swiftly overtook him. His dreams were filled with nothing but soft, lilting notes…