Page 4 of Petrify

Nothing I’m not used to—my aunt never let me lock the door all through my teen years. It didn’t keep me from sneaking out, but I learned to jam a chair under the handle if I wanted to sneak someone in through the window. So that’s what I do. I drag the chair from the writing desk, leaning it just so no one can push the door open from the other side.

I’ll feel silly in the morning when I realize that everyone is perfectly nice and there’s no real threat here. Still, I pull on the door to see if my makeshift doorstop works. And then again, for good measure.

An hour later, after I’ve eaten and bathed, I fall back onto the bed, sinking into the downy comforter that threatens to pull me under, wrapping around me like a cloud. And I doze off under the watchful eye of painted cherubim in a baroque garden, grinning, eyes piercing through me, maybe guarding me from these old ghosts, or peering into my thoughts, their innocent faces fading into the shadows the moment I cut off the light.

Chapter 2

The Ghost

Another offering,another lamb to slaughter, wandering around with her head high, exposing the bare column of her throat like shewantsme to see just how blue her bruises will blossom under my fingers.

Chapter 3

The Pianist

The 88 keysof the parlor grand are real ivory. Polished and painted and soft beneath my fingertips. I press middle C, the note interrupting the silence with a soft ring.

Sleep hadn’t come easy last night, as I’d been startled awake every hour by—nothing. Over and over. The uncanny feeling that I was not alone, every hair on my body standing on-end, my lungs sucking in air like I’d dreamt of drowning.

I’m too old to be afraid of the dark.

“So you’ve found the Steinway, then.”

I whirl around, lucky that I don’t slide off the bench and make a fool of myself.

A man and a woman are standing in the room's entrance, both gazing at me expectantly.

“You must be Miss Doyle,” the woman says. Her blonde hair is styled in loose waves, her makeup simple and perfect, her block-color dress ironed into crisp lines. A dozen feet away, she doesn’t offer a hand to shake. “Mariane Beauchene.”

I nod my head once, already feeling like they can see right through me. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

“And my husband. Leo Beauchene.”

He stands next to her at a bit of a cold distance, hands in his pockets. It’s his stare that unsettles me the most: where her features are bright, TV-ready, effortlessly styled, his eyes are dark, shadowed by his brow, and calculating. “Welcome to our home,” he says, voice a low, grating timbre.

A lump forms in my throat.

“Yes, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Mariane smiles wider, teeth shining. “And before the holidays is a big ask, but we didn’t want to interrupt Henri’s progress. We can’t thank you enough. His previous tutor seemed to make good progress with him, before she left.”

“Why did she leave?” I clear my throat. It takes everything in me not to fidget with the chain around my neck, a habit I’ve had no luck cracking these past few years. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

The corner of Leo’s lip curls, like the question is amusing. “A family emergency.”

“She left us very suddenly, so Henri has gone without a lesson for almost three weeks now.” Mariane glances at her husband. “We’ve managed to keep him on a practicing schedule, but his progress has noticeably slowed. If you could push him, get him back up to proper speed...”

I nod. “Did she leave any of her lesson plans? A curriculum?”

“Yes. She left almost everything.” Mariane gestures to the table, where a few scattered sheets and some notebooks lie. “Progress notes, scale books. I believe her folders are still there. You should not have trouble getting him back into his routine. Henri is a good boy. But,” she pauses, “should he become… difficult, we trust you’ll set him straight.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, thin lips pulled taut over her perfectly whitened teeth.

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

“He must understand that there is no room for delaying further.”

I nod again. “And his other lessons? His other tutors?”

Leo laughs, finally deigning to speak. “He has one other tutor, Ms. Wilder. For now, anyway. She has overseen the schooling of all Beauchene children for three decades, now—she wasmytutor. At this point in her career, we’ve not been able to convince her to work outside of their scheduled lessons. But you’ll look after him, right? Make him practice all afternoon, if you have to.”

I blink. “All afternoon?”