The Tune from Nowhere

It started with a melody. A few, faint, tinkling notes that I’d hear just as I was drifting off to sleep. I’d jerk awake, and the house would be silent. I wrote it off as a fragment of a dream, my mind playing tricks on me.

But the tune persisted. It was a simple, childlike lullaby, but there was something off about it. A note that was just a little too flat, a rhythm that was slightly… wrong. It was the musical equivalent of a smile that didn’t reach the eyes.

I began to hear it at other times. While washing dishes, the faint chimes would weave through the sound of the running water. While reading on the couch, the notes would drift from the hallway, so soft they were almost swallowed by the hum of the refrigerator.

I was living alone. The silence of the house had once been a comfort. Now, it felt like a canvas for this invisible orchestra.

I started searching. I tore the place apart, convinced a forgotten music box had been jostled in a drawer, or a phone was left on in another room. I found nothing but dust and my own rising panic.

The tune grew clearer. I could hum it now. It was a looping phrase, about ten seconds long, that never resolved. It just ended abruptly and began again, an eternal, maddening round.

Then, the shadows started to move.

It was always in my peripheral vision. A flicker of darkness that darted away when I turned my head. At first, it was small—a cat-sized shape scurrying along the baseboards. Then, it grew. One night, I saw a tall, slender shadow standing in the doorway of my bedroom. It had no features, just a humanoid silhouette that seemed to drink the light from the hall. The tune was loudest then, playing directly behind my eyes.

I stopped sleeping. I lived on coffee and terror, my nerves stretched to their breaking point. The tune was a constant companion, a soundtrack to my unraveling. I’d find myself humming it while making coffee, a cold dread washing over me as I realized the sound was coming from my own throat.

I called a friend, my voice shaking so badly she could barely understand me. She came over, concerned. The moment she stepped inside, her smile faded.

“It’s freezing in here, Clara,” she said, rubbing her arms. “And what’s that noise?”

My blood went cold. “What noise?”

“That… music box sound. It’s creepy.”

She could hear it too. It wasn’t in my head. The relief was immediately crushed by a more profound horror. This was real.

We searched the house together. Nothing. As we stood in the living room, the tune swelled, becoming painfully clear and close. My friend’s eyes widened, and she took a step back from me.

“Clara… it’s… it’s coming from you.”

I looked down at my own chest, as if I could see the source. I held my breath. The music stopped.

We stood in silence for a full minute, the only sound our ragged breathing. Then, I let my breath out.

And the tune started again, a soft, tinkling stream of notes emanating directly from me.

My friend fled. I don’t blame her.

That was a week ago. I’m sitting in my silent house now, but I know the silence is a lie. I can feel the vibration of the notes in my bones, a constant, internal hum. I don’t need to hear it with my ears anymore. I am the music box.

I’ve started to see the thing more clearly now. It doesn’t hide in the shadows anymore. It stands at the foot of my bed, a man-shaped void, and it listens. It listens to the tune it has planted inside me.

I think it’s winding me up. And I am terrified of what happens when the song finally ends.