The Forgotten Music Box

Chapter 1: The House on Hawthorn Hill

The Morgan family house wasn’t just old; it was eternal. Built at the crest of Hawthorn Hill, its silhouette stood stark against the twilight sky, a looming testament to resilience and mystery. Each detail, from the weathered shutters to the ivy snaking across the stone walls, carried whispers of the generations of women who had called it home.

Over the years, it had been handed down like a crown, always to a daughter, never a son. It was more than shelter; it was a living heirloom, a sanctuary of secrets. Agnes Morgan, Eliza’s great-great-great-great-grandmother, had overseen its construction in the early-1800s, and her influence lingered in every corner.

The Morgan Women were known for their strength and independence. In a time when women’s power was often confined to whispers behind closed doors, Agnes had been a force of nature. The kind of woman who could stare down a thunderstorm and make it yield. She’d designed the house herself, overseeing every detail with obsessive precision. Every archway and alcove a reflection of her defiant spirit. Rumor had it that she built hidden compartments into the walls, though no one had ever found them. Some said it was to hide valuables, others to store secrets. Agnes hadn’t just built a house; she built a legacy. 

Growing up, Eliza had often thought the house itself had moods. On sunny days, it was inviting, its many windows aglow with soft light and the scent of lavender drifting through the halls. But on stormy nights, the creaks and groans of its frame sounded almost like whispers, conspiratorial and unsettling. 

After taking a deep breath, Eliza stepped onto the porch feeling the floorboards creak beneath her weight, a sound that was oddly comforting in its familiarity. Her childhood had been filled with that sound—the rhythmic groan of wood under her feet as she ran in and out, her mother’s voice calling after her. Now, the sound echoed in the stillness, a ghost of those earlier, lighter days.

As she reached the edge of the porch, her breath catching as she stopped to take in the sight of it for the first time in years. Shadows stretched long across the sloping grounds, and the house’s silhouette was etched against a bruised sky, heavy with the promise of rain. The Morgans didn’t just live here—they grew roots, raised families, and buried secrets within its walls. Every corner of the house bore a story, and the weight of those stories pressed against Eliza now, as tangible as the key in her hand.

The key was cold and heavy, its weight grounding her in a reality she wasn’t ready to face. Her fingers trembled as she slid it into the ornate brass lock. Hesitating before turning the key, the mechanism clicking with a sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet. The door swung open with a groan, revealing the cavernous foyer bathed in shadows. Dust motes danced in the beams of the fading sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass window above the door. The chandelier, a sprawling spider web of crystal and brass, hung low from the ceiling, each prism casting fractured rainbows against the wall. 

Stepping inside felt like walking into a memory. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and lavender enveloping her like an embrace. It smelled exactly as she remembered, though there was something else now, something metallic and faintly sour that she couldn’t place. The floor beneath her feet was the same mahogany her great-grandmother had polished by hand, and the staircase that curved upward was as grand and imposing as ever.

She paused in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. To her right was the parlor, its double doors ajar, and to her left, the dining room, where countless family meals had taken place. But she couldn’t help staring at the grand staircase curved upward before her, its banister polished to a dull sheen. She remembered how her mother used to sit halfway up the stairs, her head tilted in thought as though the house itself was speaking to her. Margaret Morgan had been a woman of endless eccentricities, and this house had been her stage.

As a child, Eliza had found her mother’s quirks charming, even magical. Margaret would tell stories about the house as if it were alive, a guardian of their family’s legacy. She would say things like, “The house is like us, Eliza—it remembers.” At the time, Eliza had laughed it off, chalking it up to her mother’s dramatic flair. Now, standing here alone, she wasn’t so sure.

“This is it,” she muttered to herself, her voice breaking the silence.

The portraits lining the staircase caught her eye. They were a gallery of Morgan women, each painted in the prime of her life. Agnes was there, of course, her sharp features and piercing eyes seeming to follow Eliza as she moved. Next to her was Eliza’s grandmother, Miriam, whose stern expression had always unnerved her as a child. And then there was Margaret, her mother, painted in her early thirties. 

Eliza lingered on her mother’s portrait. Margaret’s eyes sparkled with mischief even in the static confines of oil on canvas. Her dark curls were arranged in a loose halo around her face, and her smile was just shy of a smirk, as though she knew something the viewer didn’t.

“Of course, you’d look like you had a secret,” Eliza said aloud, her voice catching in her throat. 

As she stood back to look at the whole gallery of portraits, Eliza offered them a wry smile. “Still judging me, I see.”

The silence was deafening. When Margaret had been alive, the house was a symphony of life—laughter, music, the hum of conversation. Now, it felt like the house was holding its breath, waiting for her to bring it back to life.

Moving deeper into the house, she let her fingers trail along the banister. The wood was smooth and cool, worn from decades of use. She wandered through the rooms, reacquainting herself with the space that had once been her world. The dining room was exactly as she remembered it, down to the scratch on the oak table from the time she’d tried to carve her initials with a butter knife. Her mother had been furious, but years later, Margaret had admitted she secretly loved the imperfection.

The kitchen was a time capsule of her mother’s life. Copper pots hung above the stove, their surfaces dulled with use but still gleaming faintly. The old farmhouse sink bore the same tiny chip in the porcelain that Eliza had accidentally caused while washing dishes as a teenager. She smiled faintly, running her fingers along the edge of the counter.

She paused at the pantry door, her hand brushing against the carved wooden handle. Her mother had always kept it meticulously stocked, a habit that Eliza had once found amusingly old-fashioned. Now, the thought of opening it and finding it empty was enough to make her chest tighten.

The house wasn’t just Margaret’s, though; it belonged to every Morgan woman who had come before her. Agnes, the indomitable matriarch, had been known for her steely resolve and a mysterious streak that bordered on the supernatural. The house reflected her personality, with its secret passages and rooms that always seemed larger on the inside than they looked from the outside.

Then there was Josephine, Agnes’s daughter, who had turned the library into a sanctuary of knowledge. She had been a scholar at heart, her passion for ancient texts matched only by her love for storytelling. Each generation of Morgan women left their mark on the house, shaping it in their image.

Eliza’s mother, Margaret, had been no exception. Her influence was evident in the eclectic décor—the mismatched rugs she insisted “brought character,” the mismatched china she adored, and the garden bursting with wildflowers that seemed to grow just for her. Margaret had a way of making chaos feel like home.

Shaking off the wave of melancholy, she made her way to the library. The double doors creaked as she pushed them open, and the sight before her took her breath away. The library had always felt like the heart of the house and it was as grand as she remembered, its walls lined with bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling. The towering bookshelves were filled to the brim with volumes ranging from crumbling leather tomes to glossy modern novels. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor. 

This was her mother’s sacred space, the room where she had spent countless hours reading, writing, and dreaming. Her gaze fell on the armchair by the window. It was Margaret’s chair, worn and softened from years of use. The cushion still bore the faint indentation of her mother’s shape. On the side table sat a teacup, the lipstick stain on the rim a heartbreaking reminder of her absence.

Her chest tightened as she approached the desk near the window. It was cluttered with papers, notebooks, and a leather-bound journal. Eliza hesitated, her fingers hovering over the journal before finally picking it up. Her fingers brushed across against the worn cover. It was soft and scuffed, its edges frayed from years of handling. She opened it slowly, her breath catching when she recognized Margaret’s handwriting, the ink faded but legible.

The melody has returned, read the first entry. It’s faint, but unmistakable. It haunts my dreams and my waking hours. I fear what it means for Eliza, for us all.

Eliza frowned as she stared at the words. The melody. Her mother had mentioned it in passing before, but always in a half-joking tone that made it easy to dismiss as one of Margaret’s flights of fancy. Now, seeing it written down, it felt real—and unsettling. The serious tone of the entry made her stomach twist.

The sound of the wind rattling the windows pulled her from her thoughts. Still holding the journal, her gaze wandered back to the armchair, and for a fleeting moment, she could almost see her mother sitting there, sipping tea and humming softly to herself. The memory was so vivid it brought tears to her eyes.

“Mom,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

But her mom would never answer her back again. The silence in the house was overwhelming. As her sadness settled over her and house. For the first time, it felt truly empty. Without Margaret, the house was just a shell—a beautiful, storied shell, but hollow all the same.

As she closed the journal, her hands trembling, she felt the weight of the house settle on her shoulders. Margaret had always insisted that the house was a sanctuary, a place where the Morgan women could find strength and solace. But now, it felt like a labyrinth of unanswered questions.

As she turned to leave the room, her eyes landed on the old gramophone in the corner. It was an antique, one of Margaret’s prized possessions. She approached it slowly, her fingers brushing against the brass horn.  

The melody. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

By the time she had made her way back to the foyer, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting the room in shadows. She paused at the foot of the staircase, once again staring up at the portraits that lined the walls. The women in those paintings had faced their own struggles, their own mysteries. And now, it was her turn.

“This is my life now,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.