My grandmother had been the only resident of this small island off the mainland, and when she died, there was no one to keep the forest from reclaiming it. My arrival to the island was a surprise to none, other than myself. I had never known the woman. All I knew was from old newspaper clippings - they had advertised her as a promising young pianist with the world at her feet, and then a washed-up talent, resigned to this cottage. 

Through the years, I would ask about her, and my mother would say that some stones were better left unturned.

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So, when I resolved to take the boat ride out here to retrieve my grandmother’s possessions, my mother was concerned, to say the least; but I was an adult, and someone had to do it. The next morning I departed bright and early. There was no ferry to the island, so I resorted to renting a motorboat from a rental agency on the shore instead.

I arrived around midday, and once I was docked, I began the climb up the island’s expansive hill. As I waded through the long, sun-kissed grass, I could see the ocean sparkle to my right. Straight ahead was the cottage, with the window’s gaping eyes and the door coming off its hinges - a crooked mouth. Ivy crept up the sides, twining its way into the brick and through the cracks in the windows, infiltrating everything that was once alluring about the landscape of the house.

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I reflected on the real reason I came - it was not to keep the worms from making their homes here, but to discover the mystery behind the woman I was never allowed to call “Grandma.” I walked down the path beside the garden: an overgrown tangle of foxglove and nightshade, luring unsuspecting wanderers with their dark beauty, hiding poison in delicate veins.

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Gingerly opening the door, I stood in the suffocatingly empty entrance, and noticed the deafening silence that rang in my ears. With it came the overwhelming feeling that I was not alone here.

A ridiculous thought, I said to myself. Still, I could see why my mother didn’t want me to come here; this isolation could drive a person insane. 

Walking down the short corridor, I peeked into the rooms on either side of me. The small kitchenette with a breakfast nook, the neat and comfortable living room, the bedroom with one double bed and the adjoining bathroom. It was small, surely, but seemingly perfect for a single person with few visitors. Or none.

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I was surprised at the lack of decoration. The whole place was furnished, but minimally so. There were no pictures on the walls, no ornaments, no books on the shelves. No sign of a piano could be found. Stranger still, was the cleanliness of the place. Everything was spotless; almost as if none of it had been used before. As I ran my fingertip across a windowsill, I found there was no dust there. While the exterior had been turned ghostly from the elements, the inside had been as preserved as a bug in amber.

I began searching for the trap door into the attic. I quickly found it in the small house and, as I lowered it, a cloud of dust pummeled my face. Coughing, I began to ascend the stairs, my steps slow and deliberate so as not to disturb any more dust. As I reached the landing, I was met with a sickening sight; it looked like a tornado had ripped through the attic, sending junk flying against the walls. There were piles of papers and old clothes strewn across the floor under the glass of a shattered window pane. An old couch sat in the corner, torn apart with rat bites. They had chewed through stacks of musty sheet music and there were feces littered on the floor among an overturned ashtray. The floorboards creaked as I made my way through the room, disgusted at the sight before me. 

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As I looked down, an old photograph caught my attention. A young woman stared back at me solemnly in a black dress. She was dressed in funeral clothes. Although I had never seen a picture of my grandmother, I knew this was her. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen when it was taken, but her eyes were just as my mother had described them: harsh and gray, like an iceberg in dicey water, waiting to swallow a ship whole. With a shutter, I pocketed the photograph, and looked up, noticing a large object in one corner of the room, shrouded in a white sheet. 

This must be the piano, I thought, hope rising in my chest. My heart pounded as I made my way to it slowly, and with a flourish, I ripped the sheet off. The sheet gave way to rotting wood infested with maggots, blackened keys covered in mildew, and pedals all rusted over. I could feel my eyes widen in horror and my stomach sink as I took in the ghastly image. 

Tripping over myself, I ran for the trap door. Climbing down the ladder as fast as I could, I nearly fell at the bottom. Blind to all but my fear, I dashed out the front door and towards the woods. Tearing through trees and catching my clothing on brambles, I kept pressing on. I could no longer see the ocean sparkle, or the grass wave, or remember what my purpose on this island was.

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I ran until I reached a break in the trees. The summer sun streamed down on the clearing, and my world was illuminated. I knew what my mother was trying to hide. The fate she was trying to keep me from. 

As I stood looking on the face of my grandmother, I knew how dangerous the silence was.