Every night at Dustjaw Saloon, the piano played itself. Folks said it was the ghost of Clyde “Ten-Fingers” Malone, shot dead mid-song in ’81. Sheriff Rowe laughed, until he saw the keys move—blood-slick, not ivory.
One night, drunk and bold, he shot the damn thing.
It bled.
The floorboards buckled, moaning like lungs. Bar patrons screamed as tendrils of knotted muscle burst from beneath, dragging them into the earth. Rowe watched the bartender smile—no teeth, just a gaping pit.
“You fed it late,” she whispered. “Now it’s hungry.”
The piano played again. This time, it screamed every note.
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