The Devil's Piano

The corridor was cold, too cold for a house with a fireplace in practically every room of it. None were lit. And it was cold. She could see her breath as it misted from her nose, and even her mouth as her lips parted against the darkness before her. She frowned in concentration as her too-thin hands gently brushed the old and frayed wallpaper on either side of her. Soon, she told herself, soon she would find the room that was quiet... Not haunted by the rats or the sounds of the old wooden floors as they moaned and groaned in protest of her silk slippered feet. She could hear it now... As she made her way to the heavy oak door, she pushed it back weakly, only to see the red glow of a tall melting candle atop the old piano. Softy the man played, his long white fingers moving slowly but with precision and grace. "Who are you?" She asked, quite off-put that she couldn't play. The man turned his eyeless, noseless and mouthless face towards her, unable to say a word to her...