Allison stared out of her bedroom window at the two big piles of piano remains that sat on the curb across the street. They spent half the night ridding the basement of any hint a piano had even existed. By the time they got back home, Allison and Julian limped, without a single word, to their respective rooms like zombies. Now it was 8 minutes after 6am and Allison hadn't slept at all. Ironically her drowsiness managed to slip away the second she placed her head on the pillow. Instead of putting on some generic hypnosis from YouTube, she stood over her desk and watched the piles of piano through the morning fog. In more ways than one she was still standing on the glossy cobblestone road, feeling the rim of a sweaty top hat weigh down on the crown of her head. The marks on her wrist were no help. They proved to be as useless as a metal bat against a demon—or whatever had taken a hold of her in Connor's basement. Did Ruth somehow find out what happened last night and rescind her special wrist tattoo? Allison could care less; to her, it had served its purpose. She had everything she needed—the serial killer's true identity, the answer to his riddle, and the key to solving every other secret message, that Connor had retrieved from the "library". But what did any of it have to do with her? Why was Ruth after her, instead of—
Her phone rattled the whole desk, along with her temple and left jaw, sticking to its surface. Allison lifted her head off the desk, slowly twisting her stiff neck up and straight forward. She blinked her eyes a couple of times like Dorothy trying to get back to Kansas, and with a drawn out stretch and yawn she silenced her phone. The blue sky of early morning twilight had brightened into bright yellow light and the fog had dissipated. She looked at her sweat pants, which were dingy and covered with thick grey dust. On the contrary her bed was as crisp as the ones in a hotel suite, with a little triangular crease in the comforter from when she snuck out to Connor's house. She could faintly remember two separate versions of last night's occurrence: on one hand she had fallen asleep listening to Klaus Planck as he pulled her along on a fluffy cloud; on the other hand that cloud had taken her back to the 1800s, back to a time and place in which CRP was still an active killer.
The phone buzzed once more after 5 minutes, but Allison was far too drowsy to see who it was. Instead she slumped over and slowly fell back to sleep. The longer her eyes remained closed, the more of it she saw. The shiny, brass pedals. The way the dark rosewood gleamed in the candlelight and the rococo-style shadows that danced to its tune. This wasn't a dream; more like a memory. Somehow the sound of jingling keys and a car door slamming managed to penetrate her subconscious. She was awake again, this time curled up in a ball on her bed. She reached for her phone and saw that it was about an hour later.
Connor had called 6 times in the last hour and left 4 voicemails. He couldn't have slept much either, being in the same house. Although, he was comfortable with that, as far as Allison could see. A little too comfortable. Unbeknownst to her, until last night, he had been researching the 'Stifling Slasher' in secret for months. As friendly and brave as he perceived to be, he was still an utter creep. His makeshift dark room, full of polaroids of her, had creepy written all over it.
What do you want now?, she thought as she dragged herself out of the bed. She lifted the window blinds, letting in a blinding beam of light. When the light had faded from Allison's retinas, she pressed her forehead to the glass and began to sweat, terrified at what she saw: a lone silver trash can in front of Connor's house. No piles of piano remains. She drew the blinds back down, knocking over the rolling chair propped under the desk and made sure her bedroom door was locked. Then she stripped down to her underwear and balled up her dusty sweats and shoved them into the hamper. Who could have taken it?
"Is everything alright in there", her mom called from the other side of the door.
"Yeah mom, I just bumped into the chair. I'll be out in a few".

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Dark Keys of Uncomplacency
Mystery / ThrillerIt's 1874, only a few years after the U.S. Civil War and Heinrich Schroder decides to leave his home country of Germany and settle in the modest city of Baltimore. An aspiring world-class composer, he quickly finds himself working under the lids of...