Clarissa Sparrow, glasses slipping down her nose, climbed over the sharp wrought-iron fence leading to the empty property. Signs decorated it. Ones that said things like, "KEEP OUT!" and "UNSAFE ENVIRONMENT." Clarissa trembled as she heaved herself up and over, tearing the corner of her shirt. What a way to start the evening off.

    Her old kit bag, faded in many spots, was hurled over the fence after her. Her former best friends Franklin and Rhoda made faces at her through the bars.

    "Gooooooood luuuuuuuck," Franklin jeered, pulling his eyes back at the corners.

    "Don't get eaten!" Rhoda shrieked with laughter.

    "I hate you both. Stop acting twelve! You're eighteen!" Clarissa snapped, trying to steady her nerves by hating them both with all her might.

    Leaving them behind, Clarissa advanced towards the house. It smelled like must and mildew. Here I am...getting cancer from the mold, she thought as she spread out a sleeping bag on the first floor, not trusting the stairs to hold her weight. It was creepy, but not as bad as she expected. Instead of being scared, now she just felt lonely.

    She buried her head in her pillow. I'll show them, she thought.

    Clarissa woke three hours after she'd fallen asleep to find herself buried in a snow drift. She pushed at the white stuff and sat up. Papers slid off her and into the old dining room, which was now full of white, slightly crumpled sheets of paper.

    She picked one up and stared at it. It was all the same thing: three sets of lines and dots, all running vertical. No, wait... Clarissa turned the paper sideways. It was all sheet music for a simple refrain, childishly drawn.

    "Play it."

    She gasped and spun around. In every doorway there appeared a crowd of children. She recognized some of the kids she babysat. 

    "What?" she whimpered.

    "Play it." A little boy in front held out a simple wooden recorder to her.

    "I-I don't know how to play the recorder--"

    Every blank stare turned to her. "PLAY IT!" they yelled in unison. The entire house creaked on its foundation and her ears rang like church bells. Clarissa sniffed back anxious tears and hesitantly took the recorder.

    Her fingers shook as she tried to place them over the holes. Her lips were dry as she put them around the recorder opening and blew experimentally. The sound was off-key and painful. Their eyes -- blue, brown, green, hazel -- bore into her. She fretfully recalled her brief exposure to the recorder when she was in 1st grade. It was now or never. At least she could read sheet music.

    Clarissa read the notes and blew. To her surprise, sweet music flowed forth from the recorder. A simple five-note tune that felt very nostalgic and bittersweet.

    "There. Was that okay--?"

    She trailed off, watching in horror as a hole opened in the floor and swallowed all of them whole.

    The end of the world had begun.