by R. L. Stine
“You’re ahead of me,” I told her. “I’m still doing mostly notes and scales.”
Her smile faded. Her eyes grew thoughtful.
We talked a little while about school. Then I asked if she’d like to come in and have some hot chocolate or something.
“What about the walk?” she asked, pointing. “I thought you had to shovel it.”
“Dad would be disappointed if I didn’t save some of it for him,” I joked.
* * *
Mom filled two big white mugs with hot chocolate. Of course I burned my tongue on the first sip.
Kim and I were sitting in the den. Kim sat on the piano bench and tapped some keys lightly. “It has a really good tone,” she said, her face growing serious. “Better than my mother’s piano.”
“Why did you run away that afternoon?” I blurted out.
It had been on my mind ever since it happened. I had to know the answer.
She lowered her eyes to the piano keyboard and pretended she hadn’t heard me.
So I asked again. “Why did you run away like that, Kim?”
“I didn’t,” she replied finally, still avoiding my eyes. “I was late for a lesson, that’s all.”
I set my hot chocolate mug down on the coffee table and leaned against the arm of the couch. “I told you I was going to take piano lessons at the Shreek School, remember? Then you got this strange look on your face, and you ran away.”
Kim sighed. She had the white hot chocolate mug in her lap. I saw that she was gripping it tightly in both hands. “Jerry, I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said softly. “It’s too … too scary.”
“Scary?” I asked.
“Don’t you know the stories about the Shreek School?” she asked.
I laughed. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the serious expression on Kim’s face. “Stories? What kind of stories?”
“I really don’t want to tell you,” she said. She took a long sip from the white mug, then returned it to her lap.
“I just moved here, remember?” I told her. “So I haven’t heard any stories. What are they about?”
“Things about the school,” she muttered. She climbed off the piano bench and walked to the window, carrying the mug in one hand.
“What kinds of things?” I demanded. “Come on, Kim — tell me!”
“Well … things like, there are monsters there,” she replied, staring out the window into my snowy backyard. “Real monsters that live in the basement.”
“Monsters?” I laughed.
Kim spun around. “It’s not funny,” she snapped.
“I’ve seen the monsters,” I told her, shaking my head.
Her face filled with surprise. “You’ve what?”
“I’ve seen the monsters,” I repeated. “They’re floor sweepers.”
“Huh?” Her mouth dropped open. She nearly spilled hot chocolate down the front of her sweatshirt. “Floor sweepers?”
“Yeah. Mr. Toggle built them. He works at the school. He’s some kind of mechanical genius. He builds all kinds of things.”
“But —” she started.
“I saw one my first day at the school,” I continued. “I thought it was some kind of monster. It made this weird whining sound, and it was coming right at me. I practically dropped my teeth! But it was one of Mr. Toggle’s floor cleaners.”
Kim tilted her head, staring at me thoughtfully. “Well, you know how stories get started,” she said. “I knew they probably weren’t true. They probably all have simple explanations like that.”
“All?” I asked. “There are more?”
“Well …” She hesitated. “There were stories about how kids went in for lessons and never came out again. How they vanished, just disappeared.”
“That’s impossible,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess,” she quickly agreed.
Then I remembered the tiny voice from the cabinet, calling out for help.
It had to be some invention of Mr. Toggle’s, I told myself. It had to be.
Damaged equipment, he said. He didn’t seem the least bit excited or upset about it.
“It’s funny how scary stories get started,” Kim said, walking back to the piano bench.
“Well, the piano school building is creepy and old,” I said. “It really looks like some kind of haunted mansion. I guess that’s probably why some of the stories got started.”
“Probably,” she agreed.
“The school isn’t haunted, but that piano is!” I told her. I don’t know what made me say it. I knew no one would believe me.
Kim gave a little start and stared at the piano. “This piano is haunted? What do you mean? How do you know?”
“Late at night, I hear someone playing it,” I told her. “A woman. I saw her once.”
Kim laughed. “You’ve gotta be putting me on — right?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m serious, Kim. I saw this woman. Late at night. She plays the same sad melody over and over.”
“Jerry, come on!” Kim pleaded, rolling her eyes.
“The woman talked to me. Her skin fell off. It — it was so frightening, Kim. Her face disappeared. Her skull, it stared at me. And she warned me to stay away. Stay away.”
I felt a shiver. Somehow I had shut that scary scene out of my mind for a few days. But now, as I told it to Kim, it all came back to me.
Kim had a big grin on her face. “You’re a better storyteller than I am,” she said. “Do you know a lot of ghost stories?”
“It isn’t a story!” I cried. Suddenly, I was desperate for her to believe me.
Kim started to reply, but my mom poked her head into the family room and interrupted. “Kim, your mom just called. She needs you to come home now.”
“Guess I’d better go,” Kim said, setting down the hot chocolate mug.
I followed her out.
We had just reached the family room doorway when the piano began to play. A strange jumble of notes.
“See?” I cried excitedly to Kim. “See? Now do you believe me?”
We both turned back to stare at the piano.
Bonkers was strutting over the keys, his tail straight up behind him.
Kim laughed. “Jerry, you’re funny! I almost believed you!”
“But — but — but —” I sputtered.
That stupid cat had made a fool of me again.
“See you in school,” Kim said. “I loved your ghost story.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. Then I hurried across the room to chase Bonkers off the piano.
* * *
Late that night I heard the piano playing again.
I sat straight up in bed. The shadows on my ceiling seemed to be moving in time to the music.
I had been sleeping lightly, restlessly. I must have kicked off my covers in my sleep, because they were bunched at the foot of the bed.
Now, listening to the familiar slow melody, I was wide awake.
This was not Bonkers strutting over the keys. This was the ghost.
I stood up. The floorboards were ice-cold. Outside the bedroom window, I could see the winter-bare trees shivering in a strong breeze.
As I crept to the bedroom doorway, the music grew louder.
Should I go down there? I asked myself.
Will the ghost disappear the minute I poke my head into the family room?
Do I really want to see her?
I didn’t want to see that hideous, grinning skull again.
But I realized I couldn’t just stand there in the doorway. I couldn’t go back to bed. I couldn’t ignore it.
I had to go investigate.
I was pulled downstairs, as if tugged by an invisible rope.
Maybe this time Mom and Dad will hear her, too, I thought as I made my way along the hallway. Maybe they will see her, too. Maybe they will finally believe me.
Kim flashed into my mind as I started down the creaking stairs. She thought I was making up a ghost story. She thought I was trying to be funny.
But there really was a ghost in my house, a ghost playing my piano. And I was the only one who knew it.
Into the living room. Across the worn carpet to the dining room.
The music floated so gently, so quietly.
Such ghostly music, I thought….
I hesitated just short of the family room doorway. Would she vanish the instant I peeked in?
Was she waiting for me?
Taking a deep breath, I took a step into the family room.
She had her head down, her long hair falling over her face.
I couldn’t see her eyes.
The piano music seemed to swirl around me, pulling me closer despite my fear.
My legs were trembling, but I took a step closer. Then another.
She was all gray. Shades of gray against the blackness of the night sky through the windows.
Her head bobbed and swayed in rhythm with the music. The sleeves of her blouse billowed as her arms moved over the keys.
I couldn’t see her eyes. I couldn’t see her face. Her long hair covered her, as if hiding her behind a curtain.
The music soared, so sad, so incredibly sad.
I took a step closer. I suddenly realized I had forgotten to breathe. I let my breath out in a loud whoosh.
She stopped playing. Maybe the sound of my breathing alerted her that I was there.
As she raised her head, I could see her pale eyes peering out at me through her hair.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t breathe.
I didn’t make a sound.
“The stories are true,” she whispered. A dry whisper that seemed to come from far away.
I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly. I tried to say something, but my voice caught in my throat.
No sound came out at all.
“The stories are true,” she repeated. Her voice was only air, a hiss of air.
I goggled at her.
“Wh-what stories?” I finally managed to choke out.
“The stories about the school,” she answered, her hair falling over her face. Then she started to raise her arms off the piano keys. “They’re true,” she moaned. “The stories are true.”
She held her arms up to me.
Gaping at them in horror, I cried out — then started to gag.
Her arms ended in stumps. She had no hands.
The next thing I knew, my mom was wrapping her arms around me. “Jerry, calm down. Jerry, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she kept repeating.
“Huh? Mom?”
I was gasping for breath. My chest was heaving up and down. My legs were all wobbly.
“Mom? Where —? How —?”
I looked up to see my dad standing a few feet away, squinting at me through his glasses, his arms crossed in front of his bathrobe. “Jerry, you were screaming loud enough to wake the entire town!”
I stared at him in disbelief. I hadn’t even realized I was screaming.
“It’s okay now,” Mom said soothingly. “It’s okay, Jerry. You’re okay now.”
I’m okay?
Again, I pictured the ghost woman, all in gray, her hair falling down, forming a curtain over her face. Again, I saw her raise her arms to show me. Again, I saw the horrible stumps where her hands should have been.
And again, I heard her dry whisper, “The stories are true.”
Why didn’t she have any hands? Why?
How did she play the piano without hands?
Why was she haunting my piano? Why did she want to terrify me?
The questions circled my brain so fast, I wanted to scream and scream and scream. But I was all screamed out.
“Your mom and I were both sound asleep. You scared us to death,” Dad said. “I never heard wails like that.”
I didn’t remember screaming. I didn’t remember the ghost disappearing, or Mom and Dad rushing in.
It was too horrifying. I guess my mind just shut off.
“I’ll make you some hot chocolate,” Mom said, still holding me tight. “Try to stop trembling.”
“I — I’m trying,” I stammered.
“Guess it was another nightmare,” I heard Dad tell Mom. “Must have been a vivid one.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare!” I shrieked.
“Sorry,” Dad said quickly. He didn’t want to get me started again.
But it was too late. Before I even realized it was happening, I started to scream. “I don’t want to play the piano! Get it out of here! Get it out!”
“Jerry, please —” Mom pleaded, her face tight with alarm.
But I couldn’t stop. “I don’t want to play! I don’t want lessons! I won’t go to that piano school! I won’t, I won’t!”
“Okay, okay!” Dad cried, shouting to be heard over my desperate wails. “Okay, Jerry. No one is going to force you.”
“Huh?” I gazed from one parent to the other, trying to see if they were serious.
“If you don’t want piano lessons, you don’t have to take them,” Mom said, keeping her voice in a low, soothing tone. “You’re only signed up for one more anyway.”
“Yeah,” Dad quickly joined in. “When you go to the school on Friday, just tell Dr. Shreek that it’s your last lesson.”
“But I don’t want —” I started.
Mom put a gentle hand over my mouth. “You have to tell Dr. Shreek, Jerry. You can’t just quit.”
“Tell him on Friday,” Dad urged. “You don’t have to play the piano if you don’t want to. Really.”
Mom’s eyes searched mine. “Does that make you feel better, Jerry?”
I glanced at the piano, now silent, shimmering dully in the dim light from overhead. “Yeah. I guess,” I muttered uncertainly. “I guess it does.”
* * *
Friday afternoon after school, a gray, blustery day with dark snowclouds hovering low overhead, Mom drove me to the piano school. She pulled into the long driveway between the tall hedges and stopped in front of the entrance to the dark, old building.
I hesitated. “Couldn’t I just run in and tell Dr. Shreek that I quit, then run right back out?”
Mom glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Take one more lesson, Jerry. It won’t hurt. We’ve already paid for it.”
I sighed unhappily. “Will you come in with me? Or can you wait out here for me?”
Mom frowned. “Jerry, I’ve got three stops to make. I’ll be back in an hour, I promise.”
Reluctantly, I pushed open the car door. “Bye, Mom.”
“If Dr. Shreek asks why you’re quitting, just tell him it was interfering with your schoolwork.”
“Okay. See you in an hour,” I said. I slammed the car door, then watched as she drove away, the tires crunching over the gravel drive.
I turned and trudged into the school building.
My sneakers thudded loudly as I made my way through the dark halls to Dr. Shreek’s room. I looked for Mr. Toggle, but didn’t see him. Maybe he was in his enormous workshop inventing more amazing things.
The usual roar of piano notes poured from the practice rooms as I passed by them. Through the small, round windows I could see smiling instructors, their hands waving, keeping the beat, their heads swaying to their students’ playing.
As I turned a corner and headed down another long, dark corridor, a strange thought popped into my head. I suddenly realized that I had never seen another student in the halls.
I had seen instructors through the windows of the rooms. And I had heard the noise of their students’ playing. But I had never seen another student.
Not one.
I didn’t have long to think about it. A smiling Dr. Shreek greeted me outside the door to our practice room. “How are you today, Jerry?”
“Okay,” I replied, following him into the room.
He wore baggy gray pants held up with bright red suspenders over a rumpled white shirt. His white hair looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in a few days. He motioned for me to take my place on the piano bench.
He walked stiffly across the small room until he was standing right in front of me. “Yes, my boy?” he beamed down at me, his Santa Claus cheeks bright pink.
“Well … I … this will be my last lesson,” I choked out. “I’ve decided I … uh … have to quit.”
His smile vanished. He grabbed my wrist. “Oh, no,” he said, lowering his voice to a growl. “No. You’re not leaving, Jerry.”
“Huh?” I cried.
He tightened his grip on my wrist. He was really hurting me.
“Quitting?” he exclaimed. “Not with those hands.” His face twisted into an ugly snarl. “You can’t quit, Jerry. I need those beautiful hands.”
“Let go!” I screamed.
He ignored me and tightened his grip, his eyes narrowing menacingly. “Such excellent hands,” he muttered. “Excellent.”
“No!”
With a shrill cry, I jerked my wrist free. I leapt up from the piano bench and began running to the door.
“Come back, Jerry!” Dr. Shreek called angrily. “You cannot get away!”
He started after me, moving stiffly but steadily, taking long strides.
I pushed open the door and darted out into the hall. The banging of piano music greeted my ears. The long, dark hall was empty as always.
“Come back, Jerry!” Dr. Shreek called from right behind me.
“No!” I cried out again. I hesitated, trying to decide which way to go, which way led to the front door. Then I lowered my head and started to run.
My sneakers thudded over the hard floor. I ran as fast as I could, faster than I’d ever run in my life. The practice rooms whirred past in a dark blur.
But to my surprise, Dr. Shreek kept right behind me. “Come back, Jerry,” he called, not even sounding out of breath. “Come back. You cannot get away from me.”
Glancing back, I saw that he was gaining on me.
I could feel the panic rise to my throat, choking off my air. My legs ached. My heart pounded so hard, it felt as if my chest were about to burst.
I turned a corner and ran down another long hall.
Where was I? Was I heading toward the front door?