by R. L. Stine
My shoulders throbbed with pain.
The lights came on.
“Bonkers!” I roared.
The cat leapt off my shoulders and scurried out of the room.
“Jerry—what are you doing? What’s going on?” Mom demanded angrily as she ran into the room.
“What’s all the racket?” Dad was right behind her, squinting hard without his glasses.
“Bonkers jumped on me!” I screamed, still on the floor. “Ow. My shoulder. That stupid cat!”
“But, Jerry—” Mom started. She bent to help pull me up.
“That stupid cat!” I fumed. “She jumped down from that shelf. She scared me to death. And look—look at my pajama shirt!”
The cat’s claws had ripped right through the shoulder.
“Are you cut? Are you bleeding?” Mom asked, pulling the shirt collar down to examine my shoulder.
“We really have to do something about that cat,” Dad muttered. “Jerry is right. She’s a menace.”
Mom immediately jumped to Bonkers’ defense. “She was just frightened, that’s all. She probably thought Jerry was a burglar.”
“A burglar?” I shrieked in a voice so high, only dogs could hear me. “How could she think I was a burglar? Aren’t cats supposed to see in the dark?”
“Well, what were you doing down here, Jerry?” Mom asked, straightening my pajama shirt collar. She patted my shoulder. As if that would help.
“Yeah. Why were you skulking around down here?” Dad demanded, squinting hard at me. He could barely see a thing without his glasses.
“I wasn’t skulking around,” I replied angrily. “I heard piano music and—”
“You what?” Mom interrupted.
“I heard piano music. In the family room. So I came down to see who was playing.”
My parents were both staring at me as if I were a Martian.
“Didn’t you hear it?” I cried.
They shook their heads.
I turned to the piano. No one there. Of course.
I hurried over to the piano bench, leaned down, and rubbed my hand over the surface.
It was warm.
“Someone was sitting here. I can tell!” I exclaimed.
“Not funny,” Mom said, making a face.
“Not funny, Jerry,” Dad echoed. “You came down here to pull some kind of joke—didn’t you!” he accused.
“Huh? Me?”
“Don’t play innocent, Jerome,” Mom said, rolling her eyes. “We know you. You’re never innocent.”
“I wasn’t playing a joke!” I cried angrily. “I heard music, someone playing—”
“Who?” Dad demanded. “Who was playing?”
“Maybe it was Bonkers,” Mom joked.
Dad laughed, but I didn’t.
“What was the joke, Jerry? What were you planning to do?” Dad asked.
“Were you going to do something to the piano?” Mom demanded, staring at me so hard, I could practically feel it. “That’s a valuable instrument, you know.”
I sighed wearily. I felt so frustrated, I wanted to shout, scream, throw a fit, and maybe slug them both. “The piano is haunted!” I shouted. The words just popped into my head.
“Huh?” It was Dad’s turn to give me a hard stare.
“It must be haunted!” I insisted, my voice shaking. “It keeps playing—but there’s no one playing it!”
“I’ve heard enough,” Mom muttered, shaking her head. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Ghosts, huh?” Dad asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He stepped up to me and lowered his head, the way he does when he’s about to unload something serious. “Listen, Jerry, I know this house might seem old and kind of scary. And I know how hard it was for you to leave your friends behind and move away.”
“Dad, please—” I interrupted.
But he kept going. “The house is just old, Jerry. Old and a little rundown. But that doesn’t mean it’s haunted. These ghosts of yours—don’t you see?—they’re really your fears coming out.”
Dad was a psychology major in college.
“Skip the lecture, Dad,” I told him. “I’m going to bed.”
“Okay, Jer,” he said, patting my shoulder. “Remember—in a few weeks, you’ll know I’m right. In a few weeks, this ghost business will all seem silly to you.”
Boy, was he wrong!
* * *
I slammed my locker shut and started to pull on my jacket. The long school hallway echoed with laughing voices, slamming lockers, calls and shouts.
The halls were always noisier on Friday afternoons. School was over, and the weekend was here!
“Oooh, what’s that smell?” I cried, making a disgusted face.
Beside me, a girl was down on her knees, pawing through a pile of junk on the floor of her locker. “I wondered where that apple disappeared to!” she exclaimed.
She climbed to her feet, holding a shriveled, brown apple in one hand. The sour aroma invaded my nostrils. I thought I was going to hurl!
I must have been making a funny face, because she burst out laughing. “Hungry?” She pushed the disgusting thing in my face.
“No thanks.” I pushed it back toward her. “You can have it.”
She laughed again. She was kind of pretty. She had long, straight black hair and green eyes.
She set the rotten apple down on the floor. “You’re the new kid, right?” she asked. “I’m Kim. Kim Li Chin.”
“Hi,” I said. I told her my name. “You’re in my math class. And science class,” I told her.
She turned back to her locker, searching for more stuff. “I know,” she replied. “I saw you fall out of your chair when Ms. Klein called on you.”
“I just did that to be funny,” I explained quickly. “I didn’t really fall.”
“I know,” she said. She pulled a heavy gray wool sweater down over her lighter sweater. Then she reached down and removed a black violin case from her locker.
“Is that your lunchbox?” I joked.
“I’m late for my violin lesson,” she answered, slamming her locker shut. She struggled to push the padlock closed.
“I’m taking piano lessons,” I told her. “Well, I mean I just started.”
“You know, I live across the street from you,” she said, adjusting her backpack over her shoulder. “I watched you move in.”
“Really?” I replied, surprised. “Well, maybe you could come over and we could play together. I mean, play music. You know. I’m taking lessons every Saturday with Dr. Shreek.”
Her mouth dropped open in horror as she stared at me. “You’re doing what?” she cried.
“Taking piano lessons with Dr. Shreek,” I repeated.
“Oh!” She uttered a soft cry, spun around, and began running toward the front door.
“Hey, Kim—” I called after her. “Kim—what’s wrong?”
But she disappeared out the door.
8
“Excellent hands. Excellent!” Dr. Shreek declared.
“Thanks,” I replied awkwardly.
I was seated at the piano bench, hunched over the piano, my hands spread over the keys. Dr. Shreek stood beside me, staring down at my hands.
“Now play the piece again,” he instructed, raising his blue eyes to mine. His smile faded beneath his white mustache as his expression turned serious. “Play it carefully, my boy. Slowly and carefully. Concentrate on your fingers. Each finger is alive, remember—alive!”
“My fingers are alive,” I repeated, staring down at them.
What a weird thought, I told myself.
I began to play, concentrating on the notes on the music sheet propped above the keyboard. It was a simple melody, a beginner’s piece by Bach.
I thought it sounded pretty good.
“The fingers! The fingers!” Dr. Shreek cried. He leaned down toward the keyboard, bringing his face close to mine. “Remember, the fingers are alive!”
What’s with this guy and fingers? I asked myself.
I finished the piece. I glanced up to see a frown darken his face.
“Pretty good, Jerry,” he said softly. “Now let us try it a bit faster.”
“I goofed up the middle part,” I confessed.
“You lost your concentration,” he replied. He reached down and spread my fingers over the keys. “Again,” he instructed. “But faster. And concentrate. Concentrate on your hands.”
I took a deep breath and began the piece again. But this time I messed it up immediately.
I started over. It sounded pretty good. Only a few clunkers.
I wondered if Mom and Dad could hear it. Then I remembered they had gone grocery shopping.
Dr. Shreek and I were alone in the house.
I finished the piece and lowered my hands to my lap with a sigh.
“Not bad. Now faster,” Dr. Shreek ordered.
“Maybe we should try another piece,” I suggested. “This is getting kind of boring.”
“Faster this time,” he replied, totally ignoring me. “The hands, Jerry. Remember the hands. They’re alive. Let them breathe!”
Let them breathe?
I stared down at my hands, expecting them to talk back to me!
“Begin,” Dr. Shreek instructed sternly, leaning over me. “Faster.”
Sighing, I began to play again. The same boring tune.
“Faster!” the instructor cried. “Faster, Jerry!”
I played faster. My fingers moved over the keys, pounding them hard. I tried to concentrate on the notes, but I was playing too fast for my eyes to keep up.
“Faster!” Dr. Shreek cried excitedly, staring down at the keyboard. “That’s it! Faster, Jerry!”
My fingers were moving so fast, they were a blur!
“Faster! Faster!”
Was I playing the right notes? I couldn’t tell. It was too fast, too fast to hear!
“Faster, Jerry!” Dr. Shreek instructed, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Faster! The hands are alive! Alive!”
“I can’t do it!” I cried. “Please—!”
“Faster! Faster!”
“I can’t!” I insisted. It was too fast. Too fast to play. Too fast to hear.
I tried to stop.
But my hands kept going!
“Stop! Stop!” I screamed down at them in horror.
“Faster! Play faster!” Dr. Shreek ordered, his eyes wide with excitement, his face bright red. “The hands are alive!”
“No—please! Stop!” I called down to my hands. “Stop playing!”
But they really were alive. They wouldn’t stop.
My fingers flew over the keys. A crazy tidal wave of notes flooded the family room.
“Faster! Faster!” the instructor ordered.
And despite my frightened cries to stop, my hands gleefully obeyed him, playing on, faster and faster and faster.
9
Faster and faster, the music swirled around me.
It’s choking me, I thought, gasping for breath. I can’t breathe.
I struggled to stop my hands. But they moved frantically over the keyboard, playing louder. Louder.
My hands began to ache. They throbbed with pain.
But still they played. Faster. Louder.
Until I woke up.
I sat up in bed, wide awake.
And realized I was sitting on my hands.
They both tingled painfully. Pins and needles. My hands had fallen asleep.
I had been asleep. The weird piano lesson—it was a dream.
A strange nightmare.
“It’s still Friday night,” I said aloud. The sound of my voice helped bring me out of the dream.
I shook my hands, trying to get the circulation going, trying to stop the uncomfortable tingling.
My forehead was sweating, a cold sweat. My entire body felt clammy. The pajama shirt stuck damply to my back. I shuddered, suddenly chilled.
And realized the piano music hadn’t stopped.
I gasped and gripped the bedcovers tightly. Holding my breath, I listened.
The notes floated into my dark bedroom.
Not the frantic roar of notes from my dream. The slow, sad melody I had heard before.
Still trembling from my frightening dream, I climbed silently out of bed.
The music floated up from the family room, so soft, so mournful.
Who is playing down there?
My hands still tingled as I made my way over the cold floorboards to the doorway. I stopped in the hall and listened.
The tune ended, then began again.
Tonight I am going to solve this mystery, I told myself.
My heart was pounding. My entire body was tingling now. Pins and needles up and down my back.
Ignoring how frightened I felt, I walked quickly down the hall to the stairway. The dim night-light down near the floor made my shadow rise up on the wall.
It startled me for a moment. I hung back. But then I hurried down the stairs, leaning hard on the banister to keep the steps from creaking.
The piano music grew louder as I crossed the dark living room.
Nothing is going to stop me tonight, I told myself. Nothing.
Tonight I am going to see who is playing the piano.
The music continued, soft high notes, so light and sad.
I tiptoed carefully through the dining room, holding my breath, listening to the music.
I stepped up to the doorway to the family room.
The music continued, a little louder.
The same melody, over and over.
Peering into the darkness, I stepped into the room.
One step. Another.
The piano was only a few feet in front of me.
The music was so clear, so close.
But I couldn’t see anyone on the piano bench. I couldn’t see anyone there at all.
Who is playing? Who is playing this sad, sad music in the darkness?
Trembling all over, I took another step closer. Another step.
“Who—who’s there?” I called out in a choked whisper.
I stopped, my hands knotted tensely into tight fists at my sides. I stared hard into the blackness, straining to see.
The music continued. I could hear fingers on the keys, hear the slide of feet on the pedals.
“Who’s there? Who’s playing?” My voice was tiny and shrill.
There’s no one here, I realized to my horror.
The piano is playing, but there’s no one here.
Then, slowly, very slowly, like a gray cloud forming in the night sky, the ghost began to appear.
10
At first I could just see faint outlines, pale lines of gray moving against the blackness.
I gasped. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it would burst.
The gray lines took shape, began to fill in.
I stood frozen in terror, too frightened to run or even look away.
And as I stared, a woman came into view. I couldn’t tell if she was young or old. She had her head down and her eyes closed, and was concentrating on the piano keys.
She had long, wavy hair hanging loose down to her shoulders. She wore a short-sleeved top and a long skirt. Her face, her skin, her hair—all gray. Everything was gray.
She continued to play as if I weren’t standing there.
Her eyes were closed. Her lips formed a sad smile.
She was kind of pretty, I realized.
But she was a ghost. A ghost playing the piano in our family room.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” My high-pitched, tight voice startled me. The words came flying out, almost beyond my control.
She stopped playing and opened her eyes. She stared hard at me, studying me. Her smile faded quickly. Her face revealed no emotion at all.
I stared back, into the gray. It was like looking at someone in a heavy, dark fog.
With the music stopped, the house had become so quiet, so terrifyingly quiet. “Who—who are you?” I repeated, stam
mering in my tiny voice.
Her gray eyes narrowed in sadness. “This is my house,” she said. Her voice was a dry whisper, as dry as dead leaves. As dry as death.
“This is my house.” The whispered words seemed to come from far away, so soft I wasn’t sure I had heard them.
“I—don’t understand,” I choked out, feeling a cold chill at the back of my neck. “What are you doing here?”
“My house,” came the whispered reply. “My piano.”
“But who are you?” I repeated. “Are you a ghost?”
As I uttered my frightened question, she let out a loud sigh. And as I stared into the grayness, I saw her face begin to change.
The eyes closed, and her cheeks began to droop. Her gray skin appeared to fall, to melt away. It drooped like cookie batter, like soft clay. It fell onto her shoulders, then tumbled to the floor. Her hair followed, falling off in thick clumps.
A silent cry escaped my lips as her skull was revealed. Her gray skull.
Nothing remained of her face except for her eyes, her gray eyes, which bulged in the open sockets, staring at me through the darkness.
“Stay away from my piano!” she rasped. “I’m warning you—STAY AWAY!”
I backed up and turned away from the hideous, rasping skull. I tried to scramble away, but my legs didn’t cooperate.
I fell.
Hit the floor on my knees.
I struggled to pull myself up, but I was shaking too hard.
“Stay away from my piano!” The gray skull glared at me with its bulging eyes.
“Mom! Dad!” I tried to scream, but it came out a muffled whisper.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding, my throat closed tight with fear.
“This is my house! My piano! STAY AWAY!”
“Mom! Help me! Dad!”
This time I managed to call out. “Mom—Dad—please!”
To my relief, I heard bumping and clumping in the hall. Heavy footsteps.
“Jerry? Jerry? Where are you?” Mom called. “Ow!” I heard her bump into something in the dining room.
Dad reached the family room first.
I grabbed him by the shoulders, then pointed. “Dad—look! A ghost! It’s a GHOST!”
11