Piano Lessons Can Be Murder

  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.

  “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Jerry?” Mom asked.

  “I do now!” I exclaimed. “Why don’t you listen to me? I heard her playing the piano. I came downstairs and I saw her. She was a woman. She was all gray. And her face fell off. And her skull showed through. And — and —”

  I saw Mom give Dad a look.

  Why wouldn’t they believe me?

  “A woman at work was telling me about a doctor,” Mom said softly, reaching down and taking my hand. “A nice doctor who talks with young people. Dr. Frye, I think his name was.”

  “Huh? You mean a psychiatrist?” I cried shrilly. “You think I’m crazy?”

  “No, of course not,” Mom replied quickly, still holding on to my hand. “I think something has made you very nervous, Jerry. And I don’t think it would hurt to talk to someone about it.”

  “What are you nervous about, Jer?” Dad asked, straightening the collar of his pajama shirt. “Is it the new house? Going to a new school?”

  “Is it the piano lessons?” Mom asked. “Are you worried about the lessons?” She glanced at the piano, gleaming black and shiny under the ceiling light.

  “No. I’m not worried about the lessons,” I muttered unhappily. “I told you — I’m worried about the ghost!”

  “I’m going to make you an appointment with Dr. Frye,” Mom said quietly. “Tell him about the ghost, Jerry. I’ll bet he can explain it all better than your father and I can.”

  “I’m not crazy,” I muttered.

  “Something has you upset. Something is giving you bad dreams,” Dad said. “This doctor will be able to explain it to you.” He yawned and stood up, stretching his arms above his head. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Me, too,” Mom said, letting go of my hand and climbing off the arm of the couch. “Do you think you can go to sleep now, Jerry?”

  I shook my head and muttered, “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want us to walk you to your room?” she asked.

  “I’m not a little baby!” I shouted. I felt angry and frustrated. I wanted to scream and scream until they believed me.

  “Well, good night, Jer,” Dad said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so you can sleep late.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I muttered.

  “If you have any more bad dreams, wake us up,” Mom said.

  Dad clicked off the light. They headed down the hall to their room.

  I made my way across the living room to the front stairs.

  I was so angry, I wanted to hit something or kick something. I was really insulted, too.

  But as I climbed the creaking stairs in the darkness, my anger turned to fear.

  The ghost had vanished from the family room. What if she was waiting for me up in my room?

  What if I walked into my room and the disgusting gray skull with the bulging eyeballs was staring at me from my bed?

  The floorboards squeaked and groaned beneath me as I slowly made my way through the hall to my room. I suddenly felt cold all over. My throat tightened. I struggled to breathe.

  She’s in there. She’s in there waiting for me.

  I knew it. I knew she’d be there.

  And if I scream, if I cry for help, Mom and Dad will just think I’m crazy.

  What does the ghost want?

  Why does she play the piano every night? Why did she try to frighten me? Why did she tell me to stay away?

  The questions rolled through my mind. I couldn’t answer them. I was too tired, too frightened to think clearly.

  I hesitated outside my room, breathing hard.

  Then, holding on to the wall, I gathered my courage and stepped inside.

  As I moved into the darkness, the ghost rose up in front of my bed.

  I uttered a choked cry and staggered back into the doorway.

  Then I realized I was staring at my covers. I must have kicked them over the foot of the bed during my nightmare about Dr. Shreek. They stood in a clump on the floor.

  My heart pounding, I crept back into the room, grabbed the blanket and sheet, and pulled them back onto the bed.

  Maybe I am cracking up! I thought.

  No way, I assured myself. I might be scared and frustrated and angry — but I saw what I saw.

  Shivering, I slid into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I closed my eyes and tried to force the picture of the ugly gray skull from my mind.

  When I finally started to drift off to sleep, I heard the piano music start again.

  * * *

  Dr. Shreek arrived promptly at two the next afternoon. Mom and Dad were out in the garage, unpacking more cartons. I took Dr. Shreek’s coat, then led him into the family room.

  It was a cold, blustery day outside, threatening snow. Dr. Shreek’s cheeks were pink from the cold. With his white hair and mustache, and round belly under his baggy, white shirt, he looked more like Santa Claus than ever.

  He rubbed his pudgy hands together to warm them and motioned for me to take a seat at the piano bench. “Such a beautiful instrument,” he said cheerily, running a hand over the shiny black top of the piano. “You are a very lucky young man to find this waiting for you.”

  “I guess,” I replied without enthusiasm.

  I had slept till eleven, but I was still tired. And I couldn’t shake the ghost and her warning from my mind.

  “Have you practiced your notes?” Dr. Shreek asked, leaning against the piano, turning the pages of the music workbook.

  “A little,” I told him.

  “Let me see what you have learned. Here.” He began to place my fingers over the keys. “Remember? This is where you start.”

  I played a scale.

  “Excellent hands,” Dr. Shreek said, smiling. “Keep repeating it, please.”

  The lesson went well. He kept telling me how good I was, even though I was just playing notes and a simple scale.

  Maybe I do have some talent, I thought.

  I asked him when I could begin learning some rock riffs.

  He chuckled for some reason. “In due time,” he replied, staring at my hands.

  I heard Mom and Dad come in through the kitchen door. A few seconds later, Mom appeared in the family room, rubbing the arms of her sweater. “It’s really getting cold out there,” she said, smiling at Dr. Shreek. “I think it’s going to snow.”

  “It’s nice and warm in here,” he replied, returning her smile.

  “How’s the lesson going?” Mom asked him.

  “Very well,” Dr. Shreek told her, winking at me. “I think Jerry shows a lot of promise. I would like him to start taking his lessons at my s
chool.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mom exclaimed. “Do you really think he has talent?”

  “He has excellent hands,” Dr. Shreek replied.

  Something about the way he said it gave me a cold chill.

  “Do you teach rock music at your school?” I asked.

  He patted my shoulder. “We teach all kinds of music. My school is very large, and we have many fine instructors. We have students of all ages there. Do you think you could come after school on Fridays?”

  “That would be fine,” Mom said.

  Dr. Shreek crossed the room and handed my mom a card. “Here is the address of my school. I’m afraid it is on the other end of town.”

  “No problem,” Mom said, studying the card. “I get off work early on Fridays. I can drive him.”

  “That will end our lesson for today, Jerry,” Dr. Shreek said. “Practice the new notes. And I’ll see you Friday.”

  He followed my mom to the living room. I heard them chatting quietly, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  I stood up and walked to the window. It had started to snow, very large flakes coming down really hard. The snow was already starting to stick.

  Staring into the backyard, I wondered if there were any good hills to sled on in New Goshen. And I wondered if my sled had been unpacked.

  I cried out when the piano suddenly started to play.

  Loud, jangling noise. Like someone pounding furiously on the keys with heavy fists.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “Jerry — stop it!” Mom shouted from the living room.

  “I’m not doing it!” I cried.

  Dr. Frye’s office wasn’t the way I pictured a psychiatrist’s office. It was small and bright. The walls were yellow, and there were colorful pictures of parrots and toucans and other birds hanging all around.

  He didn’t have a black leather couch like psychiatrists always have on TV and in the movies. Instead, he had two soft-looking, green armchairs. He didn’t even have a desk. Just the two chairs.

  I sat in one, and he sat in the other.

  He was a lot younger than I thought he’d be. He looked younger than my dad. He had wavy red hair, slicked down with some kind of gel or something, I think. And he had a face full of freckles.

  He just didn’t look like a psychiatrist at all.

  “Tell me about your new house,” he said. He had his legs crossed. He rested his long notepad on them as he studied me.

  “It’s a big, old house,” I told him. “That’s about it.”

  He asked me to describe my room, so I did.

  Then we talked about the house we moved from and my old room. Then we talked about my friends back home. Then we talked about my new school.

  I felt nervous when we started. But he seemed okay. He listened carefully to everything I said. And he didn’t give me funny looks, like I was crazy or something.

  Even when I told him about the ghost.

  He scribbled down a few notes when I told him about the piano playing late at night. He stopped writing when I told him how I’d seen the ghost, and how her hair fell off and then her face, and how she had screamed at me to stay away.

  “My parents didn’t believe me,” I said, squeezing the soft arms of the chair. My hands were sweating.

  “It’s a pretty weird story,” Dr. Frye replied. “If you were your mom or dad, and your kid told you that story, would you believe it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “If it was true.”

  He chewed on his pencil eraser and stared at me.

  “Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked.

  He lowered his notepad. He didn’t smile at the question. “No. I don’t think you’re crazy, Jerry. But the human mind can be really strange sometimes.”

  Then he launched into this long lecture about how sometimes we’re afraid of something, but we don’t admit to ourselves that we’re afraid. So our mind does all kinds of things to show that we’re afraid, even though we keep telling ourselves that we’re not afraid.

  In other words, he didn’t believe me, either.

  “Moving to a new house creates all kinds of stress,” he said. “It is possible to start imagining that we see things, that we hear things — just so we don’t admit to ourselves what we’re really afraid of.”

  “I didn’t imagine the piano music,” I said. “I can hum the melody for you. And I didn’t imagine the ghost. I can tell you just what she looked like.”

  “Let’s talk about it next week,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Our time is up. But until next time, I just want to assure you that your mind is perfectly normal. You’re not crazy, Jerry. You shouldn’t think that for a second.”

  He shook my hand. “You’ll see,” he said, opening the door for me. “You’ll be amazed at what we figure out is behind that ghost of yours.”

  I muttered thanks and walked out of his office.

  I made my way through the empty waiting room and stepped into the hallway.

  And then I felt the ghost’s icy grip tighten around my neck.

  The unearthly cold shot through my entire body.

  Uttering a terrified cry, I jerked away and spun around to face her.

  “Mom!” I cried, my voice shrill and tiny.

  “Sorry my hands are so cold,” she replied calmly, unaware of how badly she had scared me. “It’s freezing out. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  “No,” I told her. My neck still tingled. I tried to rub the cold away. “I … uh … was thinking about stuff, and —”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, leading the way across the small parking lot to the car. She stopped to pull the car keys from her bag. “Did you and Dr. Frye have a nice talk?”

  “Kind of,” I said.

  This ghost has me jumping out of my skin, I realized as I climbed into the car. Now I’m seeing the ghost everywhere.

  I have got to calm down, I told myself. I’ve just got to.

  I’ve got to stop thinking that the ghost is following me.

  But how?

  * * *

  Friday after school, Mom drove me to Dr. Shreek’s music school. It was a cold, gray day. I stared at my breath steaming up the passenger window as we drove. It had snowed the day before, and the roads were still icy and slick.

  “I hope we’re not late,” Mom fretted. We stopped for a light. She cleared the windshield in front of her with the back of her gloved hand. “I’m afraid to drive any faster than this.”

  All of the cars were inching along. We drove past a bunch of kids building a snow fort in a front yard. One little red-faced kid was crying because the others wouldn’t let him join them.

  “The school is practically in the next town,” Mom remarked, pumping the brakes as we slid toward an intersection. “I wonder why Dr. Shreek has his school so far away from everything.”

  “I don’t know,” I answered dully. I was kind of nervous. “Do you think Dr. Shreek will be my instructor? Or do you think I’ll have someone else?”

  Mom shrugged her shoulders. She leaned forward over the steering wheel, struggling to see through the steamed-up windshield.

  Finally, we turned onto the street where the school was located. I stared out at the block of dark, old houses. The houses gave way to woods, the bare trees tilting up under a white blanket of snow.

  On the other side of the woods stood a brick building, half-hidden behind tall hedges. “This must be the school,” Mom said, stopping the car in the middle of the street and staring up at the old building. “There’s no sign or anything. But it’s the only building for blocks.”

  “It’s creepy-looking,” I said.

  Squinting through the windshield, she pulled the car into a narrow gravel driveway, nearly hidden by the tall, snow-covered hedges.

  “Are you sure this is it?” I asked. I cleared a spot on the window with my hand and peered through it. The old building looked more like a prison than a school. It had rows of tiny windows above the ground fl
oor, and the windows were all barred. Thick ivy covered the front of the building, making it appear even darker than it was.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Mom said, biting her lip. She lowered the window and stuck her head out, gazing up at the enormous, old house.

  The sound of piano music floated into the car. Notes and scales and melodies all mixed together.

  “Yeah. We’ve found it!” Mom declared happily. “Go on, Jerry. Hurry. You’re late. I’m going to go pick up something for dinner. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  I pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the snowy driveway. My boots crunched loudly as I started to jog toward the building.

  The piano music grew louder. Scales and songs jumbled together into a deafening rumble of noise.

  A narrow walk led up to the front stoop. The walk hadn’t been shoveled, and a layer of ice had formed under the snow. I slipped and nearly fell as I approached the entrance.

  I stopped and gazed up. It looks more like a haunted house than a music school, I thought with a shiver.

  Why did I have such a heavy feeling of dread?

  Just nervous, I told myself.

  Shrugging away my feeling, I turned the cold brass doorknob and pushed open the heavy door. It creaked open slowly. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the school.

  A long, narrow hall stretched before me. The hall was surprisingly dark. Coming in from the bright, white snow, it took my eyes a long time to adjust.

  The walls were a dark tile. My boots thudded noisily on the hard floor. Piano notes echoed through the hall. The music seemed to burst out from all directions.

  Where is Dr. Shreek’s office? I wondered.

  I made my way down the hall. The lights grew dimmer. I turned into another long hallway, and the piano music grew louder.

  There were dark brown doors on both sides of this corridor. The doors had small, round windows in them. As I continued walking, I glanced into the windows.

  I could see smiling instructors in each room, their heads bobbing in rhythm to piano music.

  Searching for the office, I passed door after door. Each room had a student and an instructor. The piano sounds became a roar, like an ocean of music crashing against the dark tile walls.