This was my first round entry in the NYC Midnight Scary Story Contest 2026. It placed second in Round 1. My prompts were a wedding, a flutist, and floating. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
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A plea spoken into the void becomes a refuge in the darkness. A flutist’s melody is the bridge between the cold solitude of space and the undying hope of a memory.
“Please don’t leave me.”
“I will never leave you.”
My heart beats a rhythm that carries me away.
And I am floating.
The garden was her idea. She walked on her father’s arm through roses in full bloom, pinks and reds setting off her shimmering ivory gown. Behind her, a fountain crowned with an angel. To the right, a gazebo of primrose yellow. Waiters in white, rows of champagne flutes, a cake adorned with peach-colored roses. From the gazebo, the dulcet tones of She Moved Through the Fair, the flutist in black, defying the summer heat.
She stepped into place, lips moving. The song grew louder. I could not hear her words.
Her expression turned somber.
The flutist now stood on the bright green grass, arms steady, fingers dancing. The melody climbed, shriller and sharper.
“You may now kiss each other.”
Something black in the corner of my eye. The flutist blocking the garden path, but for the angel’s wings spreading behind him. Fingers a blur, his song turned dissonant, pitches strung without melody.
The wedding party stood like statues. The flutist glided down the rose-lined path, arms still as death, trilling a hypnotic rhythm. The sound echoed, my head threatening to burst.
I pulled her lips to mine. The flutist loomed, disjointed tones raging a storm inside my skull. I pressed my cheek to hers, whispering desperately.
“Please don’t leave me.”
“I will never leave you.” The voice of the machine, light, soft, vaguely feminine.
“What?” My heart beats a rhythm that carries me away. But the reverie dies, a candle snuffed out. “Oh… I wasn’t talking to you.”
“I understand. Navigation and climate control have failed. Emergency power only.”
The high-pitched tones from my right grow more erratic, my escape pod threatening total failure. I am adrift like the remains of the Angel-1 somewhere in the vastness behind me.
“I know. Shut off the alerts.”
The pings stop. The silence is worse.
“Can you access the library?”
“The whole database is in my memory.”
“Play She Moved Through the Fair. On solo flute.”
“Life support can only be sustained for another three hours. The music will reduce that to just under two.”
“It’s okay.” I shudder. “Just keep playing.”
The music weaves into my memory.
I am floating through space, the abyss. My eyes close.
I float on the melody.
My light in the dark, leading me home.
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