Read Online 13 - Piano Lessons Can Be Murder by R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead)
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correctly. I tried to say something, but my
voice caught in my throat.
No sound came out at all.
“The stories are true,” she repeated. Her voice was only air, a hiss of air.
I goggled at her.
“Wh-what stories?” I finally managed to choke out.
“The stories about the school,” she answered, her hair falling over her face.
Then she started to raise her arms off the piano keys. “They’re true,” she moaned. “The stories are true.”
She held her arms up to me.
Gaping at them in horror, I cried out—then started to gag.
Her arms ended in stumps. She had no hands.
23
The next thing I knew, my mom was wrapping her arms around me. “Jerry, calm
down. Jerry, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she kept repeating.
“Huh? Mom?”
I was gasping for breath. My chest was heaving up and down. My legs were all
wobbly.
“Mom? Where—? How—?”
I looked up to see my dad standing a few feet away, squinting at me through
his glasses, his arms crossed in front of his bathrobe. “Jerry, you were
screaming loud enough to wake the entire town!”
I stared at him in disbelief. I hadn’t even realized I was screaming.
“It’s okay now,” Mom said soothingly. “It’s okay, Jerry. You’re okay now.”
I’m okay?
Again, I pictured the ghost woman, all in gray, her hair falling down,
forming a curtain over her face. Again, I saw her raise her arms to show me. Again, I saw the horrible
stumps where her hands should have been.
And again, I heard her dry whisper, “The stories are true.”
Why didn’t she have any hands? Why?
How did she play the piano without hands?
Why was she haunting my piano? Why did she want to terrify me?
The questions circled my brain so fast, I wanted to scream and scream and
scream. But I was all screamed out.
“Your mom and I were both sound asleep. You scared us to death,” Dad said. “I
never heard wails like that.”
I didn’t remember screaming. I didn’t remember the ghost disappearing, or Mom
and Dad rushing in.
It was too horrifying. I guess my mind just shut off.
“I’ll make you some hot chocolate,” Mom said, still holding me tight. “Try to
stop trembling.”
“I—I’m trying,” I stammered.
“Guess it was another nightmare,” I heard Dad tell Mom. “Must have been a
vivid one.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare!” I shrieked.
“Sorry,” Dad said quickly. He didn’t want to get me started again.
But it was too late. Before I even realized it was happening, I started to scream. “I don’t want to play the piano! Get it
out of here! Get it out!”
“Jerry, please—” Mom pleaded, her face tight with alarm.
But I couldn’t stop. “I don’t want to play! I don’t want lessons! I won’t go
to that piano school! I won’t, I won’t !”
“Okay, okay!” Dad cried, shouting to be heard over my desperate wails. “Okay,
Jerry. No one is going to force you.”
“Huh?” I gazed from one parent to the other, trying to see if they were
serious.
“If you don’t want piano lessons, you don’t have to take them,” Mom said,
keeping her voice in a low, soothing tone. “You’re only signed up for one more
anyway.”
“Yeah,” Dad quickly joined in. “When you go to the school on Friday, just
tell Dr. Shreek that it’s your last lesson.”
“But I don’t want—” I started.
Mom put a gentle hand over my mouth. “You have to tell Dr. Shreek, Jerry. You
can’t just quit.”
“Tell him on Friday,” Dad urged. “You don’t have to play the piano if you
don’t want to. Really.”
Mom’s eyes searched mine. “Does that make you feel better, Jerry?”
I glanced at the piano, now silent, shimmering dully in the dim light from overhead. “Yeah. I guess,” I muttered
uncertainly. “I guess it does.”
Friday afternoon after school, a gray, blustery day with dark snowclouds
hovering low overhead, Mom drove me to the piano school. She pulled into the
long driveway between the tall hedges and stopped in
voice caught in my throat.
No sound came out at all.
“The stories are true,” she repeated. Her voice was only air, a hiss of air.
I goggled at her.
“Wh-what stories?” I finally managed to choke out.
“The stories about the school,” she answered, her hair falling over her face.
Then she started to raise her arms off the piano keys. “They’re true,” she moaned. “The stories are true.”
She held her arms up to me.
Gaping at them in horror, I cried out—then started to gag.
Her arms ended in stumps. She had no hands.
23
The next thing I knew, my mom was wrapping her arms around me. “Jerry, calm
down. Jerry, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she kept repeating.
“Huh? Mom?”
I was gasping for breath. My chest was heaving up and down. My legs were all
wobbly.
“Mom? Where—? How—?”
I looked up to see my dad standing a few feet away, squinting at me through
his glasses, his arms crossed in front of his bathrobe. “Jerry, you were
screaming loud enough to wake the entire town!”
I stared at him in disbelief. I hadn’t even realized I was screaming.
“It’s okay now,” Mom said soothingly. “It’s okay, Jerry. You’re okay now.”
I’m okay?
Again, I pictured the ghost woman, all in gray, her hair falling down,
forming a curtain over her face. Again, I saw her raise her arms to show me. Again, I saw the horrible
stumps where her hands should have been.
And again, I heard her dry whisper, “The stories are true.”
Why didn’t she have any hands? Why?
How did she play the piano without hands?
Why was she haunting my piano? Why did she want to terrify me?
The questions circled my brain so fast, I wanted to scream and scream and
scream. But I was all screamed out.
“Your mom and I were both sound asleep. You scared us to death,” Dad said. “I
never heard wails like that.”
I didn’t remember screaming. I didn’t remember the ghost disappearing, or Mom
and Dad rushing in.
It was too horrifying. I guess my mind just shut off.
“I’ll make you some hot chocolate,” Mom said, still holding me tight. “Try to
stop trembling.”
“I—I’m trying,” I stammered.
“Guess it was another nightmare,” I heard Dad tell Mom. “Must have been a
vivid one.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare!” I shrieked.
“Sorry,” Dad said quickly. He didn’t want to get me started again.
But it was too late. Before I even realized it was happening, I started to scream. “I don’t want to play the piano! Get it
out of here! Get it out!”
“Jerry, please—” Mom pleaded, her face tight with alarm.
But I couldn’t stop. “I don’t want to play! I don’t want lessons! I won’t go
to that piano school! I won’t, I won’t !”
“Okay, okay!” Dad cried, shouting to be heard over my desperate wails. “Okay,
Jerry. No one is going to force you.”
“Huh?” I gazed from one parent to the other, trying to see if they were
serious.
“If you don’t want piano lessons, you don’t have to take them,” Mom said,
keeping her voice in a low, soothing tone. “You’re only signed up for one more
anyway.”
“Yeah,” Dad quickly joined in. “When you go to the school on Friday, just
tell Dr. Shreek that it’s your last lesson.”
“But I don’t want—” I started.
Mom put a gentle hand over my mouth. “You have to tell Dr. Shreek, Jerry. You
can’t just quit.”
“Tell him on Friday,” Dad urged. “You don’t have to play the piano if you
don’t want to. Really.”
Mom’s eyes searched mine. “Does that make you feel better, Jerry?”
I glanced at the piano, now silent, shimmering dully in the dim light from overhead. “Yeah. I guess,” I muttered
uncertainly. “I guess it does.”
Friday afternoon after school, a gray, blustery day with dark snowclouds
hovering low overhead, Mom drove me to the piano school. She pulled into the
long driveway between the tall hedges and stopped in
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