The doors opened to a small vestibule; it hardly held more than a line of hooks along one wall. A single cloak hung on one of the hooks, dusty, as though it had hung there for a long time without being touched. I dared not disturb the dust… probably because it was so incredible that this room was even here.
The strangest thing was that there was a staircase. On the third floor. It led upwards. I couldn’t understand why there was a staircase going upwards on a three-story house; could it have led to an attic? If so, why would there be such a fancy vestibule leading to an attic? Moreover, the fact that the doors had not even been there before…
The violin– again, that was what I had assumed it was– was still playing. It was a gentle song, thankfully; I had never cared much for the squealing sound that a violin could make when it was played too harshly. That didn’t mean that is was a slow song though. It was was a little upbeat, like something from a a few centuries ago that had to be reserved as well as playful.
It seemed to be coming from up those stairs.
Dare I go up there and find out what was going on? I stood there for what felt like ages, wondering to myself what I should do. Was this some sort of recording, or was somebody up there playing this instrument? If I didn’t go find out what it was, what else was I going to do– go back to my computer and let these strange things carry on around me? Could it be dangerous going up there?
“What else am I going to do with my life?” I eventually asked myself. “If somebody is in my house, I should know about it. Even if it’s just a recording, how is it playing now?”
Despite my reasoning, it took some effort to get my feet onto the first stair. The wood creaked under my weight, and I nearly froze. But I wasn’t trying to sneak up on anyone, so I pressed forward, climbing each step even though my heart was pounding in my chest.
The stairway curved as it went up. It also darkened. I could see light coming through the bottom of the door– there was only one this time– at the top of the stairs, so I could at least be relieved that I would not be passing into darkness.
The door’s handle felt ancient. It was lever-style, heavy, and it felt ornately-carved in my hand. I couldn’t see it well in the shadows. Either way, it turned easily when I pressed on it, hardly making a click. I was relieved that the door did not screech on its hinges as it opened.
There was a long and wide hallway, well-lit by old-fashioned lights. This was definitely no attic. The walls were lined with tapestries and paintings, and the floor had a long rug running the length of it. I walked across that rug, trying not to thing too hard about what might lie beyond the doors at the other end of the hall. They looked exactly like the glue doors that had suddenly appeared in the library, right down to the detailed carvings.
The music was definitely coming from the other side of those doors.