The Black Violin

They say it could only be heard in silence.

In the small, forgotten village of Ravensmoor, the air was filled with tales of an eerie melody that swept through the trees on moonless nights. No one knew where it came from, but everyone recognized its haunting sound—the melody of The Black Violin. Generations had passed down the warning: Never follow the music.

To most, this was a tale for children, a ghost story. But to Isla, it was something more. Her grandmother, Edith, had been obsessed with the violin for years, spending her final days speaking in whispers about "finding the true song." After her passing, she left Isla a cryptic letter and an address. The letter was brief but chilling: “It lives between life and death. Only listen if you dare.”

The address led Isla to an old estate on the edge of town, long abandoned and covered in overgrown ivy and moss. She approached with hesitation, feeling a cold shiver as the shadows seemed to twist and stretch around her. Her fingers trembled as she pushed open the heavy door, stepping into darkness.

Inside, the house was filled with dust and decay. The air was stale, carrying a faint, metallic scent. In the center of the room lay a black violin resting on a cracked table, its wood polished to an unnatural sheen. A thick, almost tangible darkness seemed to coil around it, and Isla felt drawn to it, as though it was calling her by name.

Against her better judgment, she reached for it. Her fingers brushed the strings, and a soft, low hum filled the air. But as she lifted it, a voice echoed in her mind—her grandmother’s voice, clear as day. “The music has a cost, Isla. Once heard, it cannot be forgotten.”

Ignoring the warning, she raised the bow to the strings. The sound that followed was like nothing she’d ever heard. It was a mournful, wailing melody, both beautiful and horrifying. The room grew colder, and the walls around her seemed to pulse in time with the music. Shadows stretched and twisted, forming faces in the darkness—faces twisted in anguish and fear.

The music continued to play, as though of its own accord, drawing Isla deeper into its spell. She felt as though she was no longer alone, as though a hundred eyes watched her from the corners of the room. And then she saw them—figures moving in the shadows, reaching out with pale, trembling hands.

They were the lost souls of those who had played the violin before her, each trapped by its cursed melody. Her grandmother’s voice echoed again, filled with regret and sorrow, “They are here because they listened… and now you have joined them.”

Panic gripped Isla, but she couldn’t stop playing. Her fingers moved as if possessed, the melody twisting into something darker and more frantic. The shadows closed in, their whispers growing louder. She could feel them pulling her down, her vision blurring as the darkness crept closer.

And then, in one final, desperate effort, she let the bow fall. The music stopped. The silence was deafening.

But the room was empty now, the black violin resting once more on the table, waiting for the next to dare its cursed melody. Ravensmoor would hear whispers of a new song in the night, but no one would see Isla again.

The black violin had claimed another soul.

Thank you for reading The Black Violin. If it gave you a shiver, please like and share this story—though beware, some things are better left unheard.