The Brightnote Cemetery’s gate hung open, tethered by the very ivy that climbed its wrought iron. Its stone walls sank into the mossy soil. The sun hit the bright white mausoleum at the center of the cemetery, illuminating the surrounding graves that had been hidden in shadow. The tilted tombstones were weathered and pockmarked, their names and dates an indecipherable indent.
Greg’s boots clomped through, disrupting the hallowed grounds for the first time in years. He’d hiked to this hidden site with his paper and charcoal to bring the dead back to life. Well, at least their names and the artistry surrounding their headstones. It was rumored that an artist’s enclave once resided in these woods, and they creatively buried their dead.
He placed his rucksack alongside a headstone. He carefully unrolled a sheet of paper from its tube, taped it down, and then started rubbing. The soft swish-swash-swish echoed around the silent grounds. No birdsong penetrated the towering oaks that surrounded the site. When Greg finished his first rubbing, he stretched his fingers, marveling at the floral motif that surrounded “William Grant 1801-1874 Prodigious Craftsman.”
Then Greg heard tick-tick-tick. At first, he thought he was hearing his heartbeat before realizing it came from the mausoleum. He walked towards the sound, his steps keeping to the beat. Tick-tick-tick. The marble tomb was shaped like a music box. Inlays of notes, treble clefs, and other musical markings resided within linear staff marks. Tick-tick-tick. The pace picked up, as did Greg’s desire to explore within.
The entrance had a small crank that Greg turned several times in succession. When he removed his hand, the ticking stopped. As the door swung open, he heard a beautiful requiem in C minor. Where was this enchanting music coming from? Despite the unfinished ending, it was a flawlessly written piece.
When the music faded, the tick-tick-tick started anew.
Greg entered the mausoleum. Daylight reflected off brass instruments that hung on the walls. They decorated the crypts of the musicians who had composed this magical musical masterpiece.
Greg noted the room’s vaulted ceilings were acoustically designed. He registered the tick-tick-tick emanating from a lone open casket.
Greg approached the casket with the apprehension of one raised on the stories of Edgar Allen Poe, but with the inquisitiveness of an eager child on Christmas morning. The ticking increased in tempo, matching Greg’s footsteps as he tapped across the marble flooring. He peered into the open silk-lined coffin and saw a tremendous comb with an attached cylinder whose pins would create music when it spun.
Upon closer inspection, he noted that several pins appeared to be severed or worn away. He placed his hand on the contraption, and it pulsed to the beat of the invisible metronome. Tick-tick-tick-tick. It matched the beat of his heart. Lub-dub-lub-dub. He wasn’t quite sure where its beat began and his beat ended. Greg’s body slowly slumped to the floor as the requiem began again. A new note was added to its growing score.
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