13 - Piano Lessons Can Be Murder (5 page)

“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 onto 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 school.”

“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 back yard, 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.”