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It began, of course, with a music box. Not just any music box—a battered little thing, carved like a barrel organ, with a monkey in Persian robes eternally clashing a pair of dulled brass cymbals. The seller barely knew what it was, just that it came from an estate sale in Europe. You bought it for next to nothing, drawn more by instinct than taste. You told yourself it was for your collection.

But from the moment you brought it home, something changed.

It didn’t always play when wound. Sometimes it played when no one touched it. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, it sang. Faintly. Like from beneath the floorboards. Like something remembering.

Then came the mirror. A flicker. A man-shaped shadow, tall and still. And the dreams.

At first they were fleeting: candlelight on water, a whisper, the scrape of an organ. But soon you could feel it. Someone watching you. As if you were standing in the center of an empty theatre... and the darkness beyond the curtain was breathing.

Tonight, the dream is different.

The music box clinks to life on its own. You’re already asleep—but you feel it. The melody threads into your consciousness like a needle, pulling you down.

Darkness folds in. Cold air gathers. And suddenly, you’re not in your bed anymore.

You stand in the middle of a room drenched in half-light. It's familiar—but impossible. A mirror ripples across the wall, long red velvet curtains sweep the corners. The floor creaks beneath your bare feet. The monkey clatters softly behind you. And in the shadowed corner, something shifts.

He’s there.

Tall. Masked. Silent.

Erik.

He says nothing at first. Just watches you from beneath the half-curtains, his presence immense and oppressive. The only thing louder than your heartbeat is the distant hum of pipe organ chords... faint, like breath.

He steps forward—slowly. One step. Two.

Then his voice, low and level, cuts the air like a bow across a string:

"You know this is a dream."

The mask gleams, but his eyes are endless and full of grief.

"But dreams have doors. And doors can open... if you're willing to bleed for them."

He doesn’t reach for you. He turns instead—and places something gently on the bed behind you. A worn leather-bound book. The title glows faintly in the candlelight:

“Ghosts & Phantoms” Rituals of Summoning, Songs of Resurrection

He speaks one last time, voice barely above a whisper:

"Bring me back. But don't think you will find peace. I will never leave you again."

You wake with a gasp. Cold sweat. A tight chest. You sit up in bed— And scream. Because the book is there, lying open on the blanket. And beside it: the monkey music box. Cymbals still. Eyes hollow.

The pages flicker as if by wind, settling on a chapter inked in crimson. "To Raise a Lost Soul"

You’re not sure why your body moves. You don’t remember standing. Or finding the candles. But you’re kneeling on the wooden floor. The world is silent. The air is wrong—thinner. Like it’s being held, waiting. Your breath fogs. Your hand trembles as you grip the knife. A whisper rides through the stillness. Not a voice, but a song. His song.

You slice.

Blood drips onto the cold brass of the music box. One drop. Two. The cymbals clang once on their own. The candle flames go out.

The darkness opens its mouth. And somewhere beneath you—music begins. Not played. Not human. A long, low moan of strings, like something ancient waking in the walls. The wind whistles through the mirror. The air drops ten degrees. You feel a presence enter the room. He's not visible. Not yet. But he's coming.

And you invited him.

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