13 - Piano Lessons Can Be Murder (7 page)

I found it in the music book and propped the book in front of me on the
piano. Then I arranged my fingers on the keys and prepared to play.

But before I hit the first note, the piano erupted with a barrage of low
notes. It sounded as if someone was pounding on the keys with both fists.

“Jerry—stop it,” Mom said sharply. “That’s too loud.”

“That can’t be what you learned,” Dad added.

I set my fingers in place and began to play.

But my notes were drowned out by the horrible, loud banging again.

It sounded like a little kid pounding away on the keys as hard as he could.

“Jerry—give us a
break
!” Mom shouted, holding her ears.

“But I’m not
doing
it!” I screamed. “It isn’t
me
!”

They didn’t believe me.

Instead, they got angry. They accused me of never taking anything seriously,
and sent me up to my room.

I was actually glad to get out of the family room and away from that haunted
piano. I knew who was pounding the keys and making that racket. The ghost was
doing it.

Why? What was she trying to prove?

What did she plan to do to me?

Those questions I couldn’t answer… yet.

The next Friday afternoon, Mr. Toggle kept his promise. He greeted me at the
door to the piano school after my mom dropped me off. He led me through the
twisting halls to his enormous workshop.

Mr. Toggle’s workshop was the size of an auditorium. The vast room was cluttered with machines and electronic equipment.

An enormous two-headed metal creature, at least three times as tall as the
floor sweeper that had terrified me the week before, stood in the center. It was
surrounded by tape machines, stacks of electric motors, cases of tools and
strange-looking parts, video equipment, a pile of bicycle wheels, several piano
frames with no insides, animal cages, and an old car with its seats removed.

One entire wall seemed to be a control panel. It had more than a dozen video
screens, all on, all showing different classes going on in the school. Around
the screens were thousands of dials and knobs, blinking red and green lights,
speakers, and microphones.

Beneath the control panel, on a counter that ran the length of the room,
stood at least a dozen computers. All of them seemed to be powered up.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. My eyes kept darting from one amazing thing to another.
“I don’t
believe
this!”

Mr. Toggle chuckled. His dark eyes lit up. “I find ways to keep busy,” he
said. He led me to an uncluttered corner of the enormous room. “Let me show you
some of my musical instruments.”

He walked to a row of tall, gray metal cabinets along the far wall. He pulled a few items from a cabinet and came hurrying
back.

“Do you know what this is, Jerry?” He held up a shiny, brass instrument
attached to some kind of tank.

“A saxophone?” I guessed.

“A very special saxophone,” he said, grinning. “See? It’s attached to this
tank of compressed air. That means you don’t have to blow into it. You can
concentrate on your fingering.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s really neat.”

“Here. Put this on,” Mr. Toggle urged. He slipped a brown leather cap over my
head. The cap had several thin wires flowing out the back, and it was attached
to a small keyboard.

“What is it?” I asked, adjusting the cap over my ears.

“Blink your eyes,” Mr. Toggle instructed.

I blinked my eyes, and the keyboard played a chord. I moved my eyes from
right to left. It played another chord. I winked one eye. It played a note.

“It’s completely eye-controlled,” Mr. Toggle said with pride. “No hands
required.”

“Wow,” I repeated. I didn’t know what else to say. This stuff was amazing!

Mr. Toggle glanced up at a row of clocks on the control panel wall. “You’re
late for class, Jerry. Dr. Shreek will be waiting. Tell him it’s my fault, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for showing me everything.”

He laughed. “I didn’t show you
everything
,” he joked. “There’s lots
more.” He rubbed his stubbly beard. “But you’ll see it all in due time.”

I thanked him again and hurried toward the door. It was nearly four-fifteen.
I hoped Dr. Shreek wouldn’t be angry that I was fifteen minutes late.

As I jogged across the enormous workroom, I nearly ran into a row of dark
metal cabinets, shut and padlocked.

Turning away from them, I suddenly heard a voice.

“Help!” A weak cry.

I stopped by the side of the cabinet and listened hard.

And heard it again. A little voice, very faint. “Help me, please!”

“Mr. Toggle—what’s that?” I cried.

He had begun fiddling with the wires on the brown leather cap. He slowly
looked up. “What’s
what
?”

“That cry,” I told him, pointing to the cabinet. “I heard a voice.”

He frowned. “It’s just damaged equipment,” he muttered, returning his
attention to the wires.

“Huh? Damaged equipment?” I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

“Yeah. Just some damaged equipment,” he repeated impatiently. “You’d better
hurry, Jerry. Dr. Shreek must be wondering where you are.”

I heard a second cry. A voice, very weak and tiny. “Help me—please!”

I hesitated. Mr. Toggle was staring at me impatiently.

I had no choice. I turned and ran from the room, the weak cries still in my
ears.

On Saturday afternoon I went outside to shovel snow off our driveway. It had
snowed the night before, only an inch or two. Now it was one of those clear
winter days with a bright blue sky overhead.

It felt good to be out in the crisp air, getting some exercise. Everything
seemed so fresh and clean.

I was finishing down at the bottom of the drive, my arms starting to ache
from all the shoveling, when I saw Kim Li Chin. She was climbing out of her
mother’s black Honda, carrying her violin case. I guessed she was coming from a
lesson.

I had seen her in school a few times, but I hadn’t really talked to her since
that day she ran away from me in the hall.

“Hey!” I called across the street, leaning on the shovel, a little out of
breath. “Hi!”

She handed the violin case to her mother and waved back. Then she came
jogging toward me, her black hightops crunching over the snow. “How’s it going?”
she asked. “Pretty snow, huh?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Want to shovel some? I still have to do the walk.”

She laughed. “No thanks.” She had a high, tinkly laugh, like two glasses
clinking together.

“You coming from a violin lesson?” I asked, still leaning on the shovel.

“Yeah. I’m working on a Bach piece. It’s pretty hard.”

“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 back yard. “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 hadn’t told anyone about the ghost and the piano. 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’re 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.