Charlotte

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Charlotte's nursery was in the room furthest from the door: up many stairs and down a long hall. There, she spent her early days keeping her nurses busy, filling diapers, throwing toys, screaming, and biting. But no number of stairs, length of halls, or thickness of doors could keep the music from reaching her ears. Fortunately, infants don't know what a door is, much less how to open one.

Once Charlotte had learned to walk, the mansion was hers. She would run, scratch, scribble, pound, and stomp anywhere and everywhere. All things that might break or be ruined were moved out of the reach of little tiptoes. Treats purchased by absent parents were doled out to quiet shrill shrieks.

An exasperated servant, pining for peace and quiet, might duck into some closet or guest bedroom, ears plugged to block out the incessant hammering of tiny hands on the door. Every door would eventually open if she kept beating against it, Charlotte learned.

Except for that door.

A door that never opened stood between Charlotte and some haunting, dulcet air -- not quite a voice, but not quite strings -- that sang day and night, and sometimes whispered her name. No one said a word about the door, except to remind Charlotte it was off-limits. This annoyed her to no end.

What strange and lonely thing lived in the forbidden room? If it were a friend, she'd make it hers. If not, well... Charlotte would have her way, in any case. Every day her fingertips stretched closer to the glittering glass knob, until finally, she could grasp it.

The tired servants were relieved to know the resulting puddle of blood was the last mess of Charlotte's they'd ever be expected to clean.