The Music Boxs

The house where I grew up was huge. It had a giant living room, spacious kitchen with island and bar area, a massive rec room, laundry room, sitting room—we called it the antique room and dining room. On top of that, the downstairs had two half bathrooms.

Upstairs there was an oversized master bedroom with walk-in closet and a full master bathroom that had a tub I could swim in when I was little. Down the straight hallway, a little further down the hall was my brother's room. The walls were painted green, and he had a blue plaid bedspread on a twin bed that had a railing on the side that wasn't touching the wall. My brother tended to roll out of bed as a kid. My parents, before installing the bar, often found him fast asleep on the floor right next to the bed, his blanket sloping off the edge with him.

Further down the hallway, the guest bedroom, the smallest room in the house. Next to it, the guest bathroom that had the laundry shoot that my brother and I tossed our dirty clothes down. I often thought about jumping down the short shoot when I was little. Across from the bathroom, the door to the attic, where I once heard a voice calling out to me. My room sat at the direct opposite end of the hall from the master bedroom. This story is about what was in the guest bedroom.

I was around ten years old. I can’t explain what happened. All I know is it only intensified my fear of what may lay in the dark.

I woke up early that morning. It was spring, and the sun was starting to rise early in the morning. It was around seven, and I wanted a snack. I went downstairs to get a bowl of cereal. Honey Nut Cheerios were and still are a favorite of mine. I had two bowls while the sun started its way up behind the hills near our house. By the time I finished, only a light blue haze still lingered in the sky.

At night I tried to limit the number of times I walked down the long hallway that stretched from my parents' room to mine. I was terrified of the dark, and that hallway got so dark after the sun went down. If I ever had to make the trek, I always turned on the light on either side of the hallway before I walked through. It used to drive my dad crazy. I'd often just left the light on, but even with the light on, I still felt uneasy. Like something waited to just for a sliver of shadow to attack me.

That morning I felt safe walking down the hallway without turning on the light. I always felt better about walking through it after the sun came up. I should have been more careful that morning.

Everything seemed fine. I was starting to feel proud of myself for being so brave when I went past the guest bedroom, near my room. The guest bedroom had a full bed with an antique-looking white metal frame—a puffy comforter with an old looking cover decorated with roses the bed. My mom had one of her antique tallboy dressers. It was dark wood with decorative gold pulls for knobs. And on top of that dresser is where the music box sat.

The music box had belonged to my older sister. It was a square rectangle with a wind-up knob on the back and featured a dancing clown on the front. The word circus scrolled across the top, and a banner at the bottom said the dancing clown. The clown always made me uncomfortable as a child. It wasn't like a conventional clown you see at the county fair; it looked more like a court jester. The clown smiled, but the way you smile at someone you don't like. It was a scrutinizing smile. I felt like it knew what the thing was behind me; something I always felt was following me whenever I walked down the hallway in the dark.

Just as I passed the room, a soft, vaguely familiar jingle started to float out of the guest room behind me. I stopped. I felt the creeping nail tips crawling up my spine, a rush of adrenaline. Something was wrong. The music box was old and couldn't play unless the knob on the back got turned. I knew that. It couldn't play on its own.

I turned in the hall to star at the doorframe. The door was open, but I was closer to my room than the guest room. I could barely see a sliver of the tallboy. I crept towards the door. The adrenaline continued to surge; my body said run, my brain said there's nothing to be afraid of, so be quiet. I stepped into the doorway and stared at it.

The clown was dancing its jerking dance, so out of step with the music. My unease continued to grow; it shouldn't have done that without being turned, it had never done that without being wound up. The nails slid further, faster up my spine, I couldn't take my eyes off of the face, the face that knew the thing that followed me in the hallway. I finally listened to my body and ran.

Years later, I found the music box in my older sister's house. I told her she had to get rid of it; something about it wasn't right. Later, she heard separately from another sister that it used to play without being wound when she stayed in the guest bedroom at my parent's old house. The Vintage Dancing Clown Music Box got trashed.