Page 26 of Petrify

Chapter 15

The Pianist

For you.

I study the words scrawled on the page. A few more measures for the waltz, the left hand the same chords, though the melody begins to wilt into something melancholic. It’s written in such a way that the left hand is heavy, while the right barely dances across the keys, lilting and tenuous. Humming through these new lines, I’m mapping out the movements of my hands before I can even make it to the keyboard.

I don’t tell anybody. This, I keep to myself, my own little secret. This song, this piece of worn paper, mine. If I show someone, they might take it, and then I’ll never know how the song resolves.

He left it for me. He wrote this forme.

What is he trying to tell me?

My thoughts wander to him, to the song, even when I am occupied with Henri and our lessons. I want so badly to tell Henri to take a break, so I can have the piano to myself.

One more day passes, and I can play the waltz with my eyes closed. Becoming so familiar with a piece, the movements second nature, mindless, almost—I’m meant to do this. I’mmeant to be this vessel for the music. It feels too good, like the song and I are slowly meshing together.

Of course the songhewrote is worming its way into my head.

Twice now he has revealed himself to me. No one thinks he’s real, but now I know better, though I’m not sure exactly what I’ve done to earn his music.

He’s hurting, I think. His heart. As much as a ghost’s heart can hurt.

He doesn’t know he’s dead.

I’m waiting for him, waiting for the next time he’ll show himself. I catch myself wondering if he’s watching, sometimesfeelingthat he is. Those eyes on me—it’s him, I know it. Ever since that first night, like some kind of guardian angel, always with me, and now I’ve come to expect it. He’s always there. I imagine he follows me from room to room.

I’m such a freak.

Henri doesn’t seem to notice the strange attention lingering throughout our entire lesson. No one mentions the Ghost again, not Ms. Byrne, or Julia, or Em or Nathan. If they feel it too, they must be numb to it.

But my thoughts are of nothing but the song and its composer.

When I have free moments, I spend them with the waltz, even when my fatigue catches up to me and my eyes are too tired to focus on the thin drawn lines, the blots of ink translating his song into something tangible. The melody echoes, layered over the ache that creeps into my skull most days. I know I’m exhausted, and yet I can’t stop. Sleep feels less important than getting this song right.

He needs to know he hasn’t wasted his music on me.

I’m no longer dozing when the clock in the hall announces the midnight hour, the soft, soothing chimes some distance away, yet ringing out like a death knell. My hands are already fisted in the sheets.

I’m not alone. I know it the moment I open my eyes.

When I push myself up, I see it—the shadow figure at the window, emerging from the dark like a wraith. The moon is bright tonight, and though my curtains are drawn shut, a soft blue glow illuminates the figure’s face.

That smooth, white face. Expressionless, blank.

Because it’s not his face.

It’s a mask.

Ghosts don’t wear masks, I think, somewhere in the back of my head. But it hardly registers, because I’m pushing myself against the headboard, as far as I can get from him, legs tangling in my sheets. “You?—”

I don’t know what to call him. Nothing feels right. Certainly notArnie.

Is this even Arnie, anymore? Or has he transformed into something else? He looks everything like a demon sent to haunt me.

His head cocks to the side.

“You—you’re—” Holding the blanket to my chest like it can protect me, for a moment I’m light headed. “You’ve been watching me,” is all I manage to stutter out.