Read Online Waiting Spirits by Bruce Coville - Free Book Online

from each other.
    â€œI’m not certain,” she answered, pulling back the sheets. “I don’t believe Gramma’s explanation that it’s something psychological. Not for a minute. This place is haunted, and that’s all there is to that.”
    Carrie shivered.
    â€œHey, I thought you were eager for some good stories to tell when you got home,” teased Lisa.
    Carried forced a smile. “You know me—always changing my mind!”
    Lisa put an arm around her. “That’s right,” she said soothingly. “I forgot.”
    Carrie leaned her head against Lisa. “Do you think she’ll come back tonight?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Lisa softly. She glanced at the clock on the dresser; the lighted dial read 12:05. “It’s after midnight. If she was a traditional ghost, she would have been here already.”
    â€œMaybe she’s like me,” said Carrie, stifling a yawn. “Always late!”
    Lisa woke with a start. Where was she?
    She looked around and let out a little sigh of relief. She was in her bedroom. Carrie was sleeping next to her. It was the sudden waking out of a deep sleep that had made her feel disoriented.
    But what had roused her? Something had caused her to stir from her slumber.
    The piano! Someone was playing the piano.
    She had a feeling she knew who it was. Sliding her feet into her slippers, she stood and put on her robe. Then she lit the candle again and headed for the hall.
    I must look like the cover of a horror novel, she thought. Then, creating the advertising copy, she added, “Stalking the darkened corridor with a candle in her hand, the fearless girl searched for the mysterious sounds.”
    Lisa paused at the top of the stairs, struck by a sudden urge to turn back. Why are you doing this? demanded a tiny voice inside her head, speaking for the sensible part of her personality, the part she so often ignored.
    It was a reasonable question. Why was she doing this?
    Slowly an answer took shape in her mind. It was partly curiosity. She had never realized how powerful curiosity was, how it could drive you on even in the face of fear. She had heard her mother and father talking about “the human condition” one night after dinner. This must be part of it—to be controlled by curiosity, to push on when some wiser part of you was crying out, “Turn back! Turn back!”
    That was part of it. But there was more. In the same way that the house was haunted by a ghost, Lisa was haunted by the ghost’s sorrow. She had to believe that the woman who wept in the night had come back because she wanted something, needed something. And Lisa had the wild idea that maybe she could help solve the spirit’s problem. The sound of that weeping had stayed with her since she had first heard it. It, too, was part of what drove her on now.
    The piano was playing softly. Lisa hummed under her breath, trying to catch the tune. It was sweet and oddly sad. Suddenly she recognized it: “Beautiful Dreamer,” by Stephen Foster. Her grandmother had often sung it to her as a lullaby when she was little. The words drifted through her head as she took her first step down the stairs.
    For an instant the piano stopped, almost as if the player had sensed her presence. Then it began again, a little louder than before, yet still only a ghost of a melody tickling across the threshold of her hearing.
    Lisa reached the bottom of the stairs and stood for a moment in wary silence. The woman was sitting at the piano, swaying from side to side as she played. She stopped. Lisa could see her shoulders shake with sobs. Then she began to play again, and Lisa smiled in spite of herself as the merry notes of “Bill Bailey” came tinkling through the room. She almost had an urge to sing along.
    Suddenly the woman slammed her hands against the keys, creating a harsh jumble of sound. She turned around on the bench and, looking up,