Perfect Pitch by A.C. Turner

The melody drifted from the crater behind Miller's farm—hauntingly beautiful, like angels singing. Hikers detoured miles to hear it, pressing their ears to the earth, eyes closed in pure bliss.

Mrs Chen fell first, then the postal worker, then the scout troop. All drawn helplessly to the edge.

I brought recording equipment to capture what drew them in. But through headphones, played at half-speed, the truth emerged: not harmony, but agony. Dozens of voices screaming in perfect, terrible unison.

Weekly the music evolves—different instruments, new voices joining the chorus below.

I should warn people. Instead, I find myself humming along.