12.01 a.m.

A sandy-haired twelve-year-old boy named Crispin Taylor stares in dismay at the dilapidated house. His parents divorced five years ago, and Crispin and his mother now live in a small flat in Guildford, England. His mother, Susan, recently inherited the house from her aunt on the outskirts of town.

Her aunt’s father made his fortune manufacturing men’s haberdashery. Susan told Crispin that his great aunt’s name was Beatrice Baines. She never had children, so she would invite Susan, several other cousins, and a few of the neighbor’s children to spend the summer at her house in the country. The weather was cooler, and there was plenty of room to run and play. The house had extra bedrooms for girls to sleep in, while the boys loved camping in the barn. During Susan’s childhood, the house was painted a bright yellow- Aunt Beatrice’s favorite color.

Crispin can’t imagine this is the house his mother had described as the one from her youth. The bright yellow paint has all but faded away, and the white trim is nonexistent.It is a two-story house with a wraparound porch and a corner tower. There are plenty of windows, and the roof has two brick chimneys. Many shingles are loose, and some shutters hang sideways. However, he finds the two stained glass panels in the front door fascinating. They depict butterflies and flowers.

Suddenly, Crispin hears a gravelly baritone voice behind him. “What ya staring at, young fella?” The speaker is an elderly gentleman, about seventy or so. He has a shock of white hair, white bushy eyebrows behind dark-rimmed glasses, and no upper teeth. On his chin is at least a day’s worth of grey stubble. Just the same, Crispin thinks he sees kindness in the man’s eyes.

Crispin points out, “Over there in the corner. See? There’s a big hornet’s nest.” The gentleman squints his eyes and adjusts his glasses.”

“Oh, yeah! It’s a big one, alright,” he says as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. This is a gesture that Crispin can expect to see every time the man speaks. Most annoying. The old man continues, “With a nest that size, you have to wait until it’s night before you can destroy it. All the hornets must be inside, or they will build a new nest—his tongue flicks in and out several times. “My name is Ralph, by the way. I live in that house there, just a few lots away.” He extends his hand, “And you are?”

“I’m Crispin, Crispin Taylor,” Crispin replies, shaking the large, calloused hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Ralph chuckles, “Why aren’t you the polite one? I saw the van delivering your furniture and decided to come over and see who’s moving in. Did you know the lady that used to live here by any chance?” Crispin explains that the previous owner was his mother’s aunt and that he had never met her.

“Oh, now that’s a shame,” replies Ralph. “She loved children and always had a house full of them whenever she could.

“Did you know my Aunt Beatrice?”

Ralph rubs his whiskers, causing a rasping sound. “No, Not really, though we did speak to one another occasionally. She never married. Too bad because she was rather handsome when she was young. Besides her love of children, she was also quite an accomplished pianist. You could hear her playing her piano on any night of the year, often accompanied by children laughing and singing. How’d you end up with Beatrice’s house?”

Crispin explains that his mother is her aunt’s only living relative. “Aunt Beatrice also left a bit of money, but I don’t think it will be enough to fix this.”

Ralph chuckles, “ It ain’t so bad. All it needs is a fresh coat of paint and some tender loving care. Then it will look bright and new. It’s sad what happened to Beatrice. Times changed and the community with it, people became less trusting and suspicious. That’s when the rumors started. Rumors that Beatrice was abusing the children. They couldn’t prove it, but the house’s downfall began when the children could no longer come. And with its downfall, so began Beatrice. She stopped caring for the house and herself, and it wasn’t long before she became known as Beatrice the Witch. So mean.Then came the investigation. A child went missing, and the first thing the town did was to accuse your aunt. The premises were thoroughly searched, but no clues were ever found. But once accused… Crushed and broken-hearted, poor old Beatrice was reduced to sobbing while she played her piano at night. It’s always the same song, Swan Lake, a haunting melody. Then, one night, about midnight, I guess, I was passing by when I heard an anguished scream, and the music stopped. That was the night your aunt gave up living. That was about a month ago, so it took a while to discover that your family was all she had. I’m sure that now you and your parents are here the place will be lively again, hey?”

Crispin sighs. “My parents are divorced and, by the condition of the house, I’m sure it will be a while before it’s bright and lively. If it ever will be. I mean, look at it! It’s so spooky looking!”

From the corner of his eye, Ralph looks down at Crispin and clears his throat.“Now that you mention it don’t be surprised if some of the children at school tell you that your house is haunted.Pay no attention to them. They’re just foolish children who don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Paling slightly, Crispin stammers, “Why? W-What do they say?”

The old man rubs his chin and vigorously flicks his tongue. “Pay no mind. It’s all just silly talk. They claim the spirits of all the children that Beatrice the Witch captured seep through the wall at midnight to dance to the music playing. They circle the living and suck the life force from them until they are made whole again. See! Crazy talk!Besides, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

Crispin swallows hard but shakes his head no. Ralph pats him on the shoulder, “Good! Good lad. Now, don’t worry about a thing. And by the way, welcome to the neighborhood!”

That night, Crispin lays stiffly in bed, listening to all the noises an old house makes. The creaking of the rafters to the wind rattling the windows. After tossing and turning for what feels like forever, he hears the downstairs clock chime twelve. He releases his breath and laughs when nothing happens. “The old man was right! How stupid could I be to take those silly tales to heart!”Crispin pulls up the covers and settles down to sleep. That’s when, at 12.01, he hears the first notes of Swan Lake!