13 - Piano Lessons Can Be Murder (4 page)

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.

“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.

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.

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, stammering 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!”

Dad clicked on the light. Mom stumbled into the room, holding one knee.

I pointed in horror to the piano bench.

Which was now empty.

“The ghost—I saw her!” I cried, shaking all over. I turned to my parents.
“Did you hear her?
Did
you?”

“Jerry, calm down.” Dad put his hands on my trembling shoulders. “Calm down.
It’s okay. Everything is okay.”

“But did you see her?” I demanded. “She was sitting there, playing the piano,
and—”

“Ow. I really hurt my knee,” Mom groaned. “I bumped it on the coffee table.
Oww.”

“Her skin dropped off. Her eyes bulged out of her skull!” I told them. I
couldn’t get that grinning skull out of my mind. I could still see her, as if
her picture had been burned into my eyes.

“There’s no one there,” Dad said softly, holding onto my shoulders. “See? No
one.”

“Did you have a nightmare?” Mom asked, bending to massage her knee.

“It
wasn’t
a nightmare!” I screamed. “I
saw
her! I really did!
She
talked
to me. She told me this was her piano, her house.”

“Let’s sit down and talk about this,” Mom suggested. “Would you like a cup of
hot cocoa?”

“You don’t believe me—
do
you?” I cried angrily. “I’m telling you the
truth
!”

“We don’t really believe in ghosts,” Dad said quietly. He guided me to the
red leather couch against the wall and sat down beside me. Yawning, Mom followed
us, lowering herself onto the soft couch arm.