11. The Pianist
The Pianist
The ghost really exists.
All night, I tossed and turned, and the eyes that have followed me since my first day here are incessant, those angels across the room staring, unblinking, watching my every move, and not for a moment do I feel alone.
I stare back in the darkness, waiting to see the figure materialize from the dark, and when the sun begins to crest the horizon, chasing away the shadows, I only feel marginally better.
The ghost—he’s real.
There’s a fucking ghost in this house and there’s no way it wasn’t him standing at the foot of my bed, watching me sleep.
Something flutters in my belly every time I think of that blank white face staring straight at me.
Like he was dissecting me. I could feel the way his eyes trailed from one end of my body to the other like a finger tracing along my skin.
The suds from my bath soap had fizzled away enough my body had been entirely exposed.
How long had he been standing there? How long had he watched me while I lay there, completely vulnerable and naked?
He saw what I was doing.
I keep expecting the smooth white face to peer around the corner as I dress for the day.
I smudge concealer under my eyes to hide the evidence of my sleepless night.
I had locked the door to the bathroom, and shoved a chair under that handle as well, for good measure.
Barricaded myself into the room from both sides. Just in case.
I wasn’t terrified—there was no reason to be—it was just a ghost.
A ghost can’t hurt me.
Yet as I walk to breakfast, the house slowly waking up around me, a paranoia compels me to glance over my shoulder. Shadows move in my periphery, curtains rustling, figures following me from one pool of darkness to the next. A hand hovering over my shoulder, waiting to grab me.
That thrill sparks again low inside me, terror sending my heart racing.
Every time I look, I am alone.
The ghost is walking next to me, invisible, stalking me.
And there is no reprieve.
“Can we go to the cemetery?”
It’s an hour or so before dinner and the sun is still high enough amid thick gray clouds.
“The cemetery?”
Henri looks up at me, waiting for my decision.
“Alright. We can get a walk in before dinner.”
Because of the freezing winter, I haven’t made any effort to explore the grounds of the manor. Despite the house’s creepiness, it’s warm and cozy in most rooms. I can easily find a quiet corner to read in, a luxury I’ve not taken for granted.
Henri has to get bundled up, so I help him pull his coat and boots on once we’re in the foyer. I have the fleece-lined leather jacket I bought a few weeks ago and my scarf.
I’m not sure if I need to report our whereabouts to anyone, but Desmond passes us in the foyer, and I decide that’s good enough, telling him to let Ms. Byrne or Ms. Wilder know, if he sees them.
His only response is a raised brow. I’ve hardly seen him around since my first day, but when I do, he’s silent and brooding, almost like he’s avoiding speaking to anyone in the house.
Outside is the type of wind chill that seeps to your bones.
The air stills often enough to trick me into thinking the temperature’s not too bad.
I wound my scarf around my neck, and I’m thankful that I did, tucking the lower half of my face and my nose into the thick wool.
Henri’s ears and cheeks are pink but he doesn’t complain.
I swear I feel the faintest drops of sleet landing on my lashes as we trudge down the drive.
I let him lead the way, and he talks the whole time about his lessons this morning with Ms. Wilder: showing off his multiplication skills by listing the multiples of eleven, telling me about the passage he read in Through the Looking Glass.
The Henri before me today is an entirely different boy from the shy, quiet thing I met on my first day.
The cemetery is tucked away behind a hill, between the house and the woods on the north side of the grounds.
Surrounded by a wrought iron gate with stone pillars, I had just assumed these were the gardens, with how the path leading up was paved with angular, flat cut stones and gravel, lined with barren shrubs and benches.
At first, I see no indication we’ve entered a resting place for the past Beauchenes, only half-dead hedges, twigs sparse in the wintery air.
But peeking from behind tree trunks, from under bare rose bushes, are large white marble headstones.
Once I see the headstones, I realize just how many surround us—just how many bodies are buried around us.
Generations of this family, interred six feet under, rotting in the earth.
Henri keeps talking, and before I know it, we’re standing before a tomb, at the very center of the cemetery, overlooking the dozens of graves.
Veined green marble columns, stained glass windows, and the family’s name etched into the stone above the iron door.
It’s too pristine, unmarred by dirt and moss.
A strong gust whips loose leaves around our legs, tugging at our clothes.
Henri only hesitates a moment before he reaches for the door. There’s a set determination to his small shoulders, and it’s clearly heavy for him, but I get the sense that he wants to do this alone.
I tell myself it’s the frigid wind that has me seeking shelter, not my curiosity propelling me into the dark room behind the boy.
He stands at the far wall, looking upward. The tomb is empty, each of its crypts unsealed and open, save for one, the stone flat and sealed tight.
It’s etched at eye level—Bastien Arnaud Beauchene.
Arnie.
Just on the other side of the slab is his corpse, brittle bone and remnants of flesh, locked inside to decay alone.
He doesn’t know he’s dead.
When my duties are done for the day, Henri is being readied for bed, and no one else is looking for me, I find myself back in the practice room.
I have an hour until “quiet hours” begin.
I can’t get the song out of my head. This uncanny feeling that I know it. Not some refrain from a song centuries old, a chord progression used time and time before. No, it’s new. And so familiar I think I’m losing my mind.
I sit at the Steinway, sinking onto the bench with hesitant limbs, fingers already shaking.
All day I mulled over the song, replaying the bit of melody in my head, wishing I had photographic memory and could recall the entire thing.
The sheet of music was tucked away under one of the scale books.
Irrationally, I worry if I don’t hide it while I’m gone, it’ll go missing.
The first few measures come slowly, the music clunky under my fingers, the timing not quite right. As I play through the few lines of music, it engrains itself into my mind, note by note.
I play through the thirty measures once.
Then again.
Sitting in silence and mapping out the movements, studying the notations, the scratched handwriting. In my head, the song keeps going, the melody continuing, the chords repeating, over and over, an endless loop.
I’m halfway through another run, my mind wandering, focused on the music, and then crashing to screeching a halt when the hair stands on the back of my neck.
The eyes are on me again. I’m being watched.
Someone’s behind me.
Not just someone.
Him.
Bastien.
I will myself to finish, my fingers shaking against the keys. The last note rings out, a jarring ceasing of sound.
He has stalked me. He watched me when I was most vulnerable. There’s no telling what else he’s done, what he’s seen, and yet…
“You left that music for me, didn’t you?” I say it out loud before I can stop myself. It had been a nagging feeling, so outlandish and entirely unplausible.
He doesn’t know he’s dead.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Their son, who would be twenty-six if he were still alive. Two years older than myself.
“Miss Doyle.”
I whirl around, an ugly sound crashing from the piano’s keys.
Maxim stands in the doorway. Irritation furrows his brow. “Curfew. It’s getting late.”
My heart is stuttering in my chest and I feel so stupid, talking to an empty room and expecting an answer.
The clock on the wall says it’s five minutes to nine. I’m cutting it dangerously close. “Of course. Sorry. I lost track of time.”
Maxim’s suit is unruffled, dark hair impeccable, even this late in the day, prepared to continue seeing to the demands of the family. “Good night, Miss Doyle.”
Each utterance of my name is a threat, a reminder, that my position hinges on making the family happy—and that if anyone has sway over the family, it’s him. I knew, even that first night when I arrived, not to get on his bad side.
I don’t want to make enemies, certainly not with him.
I stand and quickly gather my things. On my way out, I force my face into something pleasant. “Good night, Maxim.”
When I wake, there is another sheet of music on my nightstand, handwritten in the same scrawling script, each line carefully drawn out. A continuation of the piece that’s consumed my thoughts. Only a few lines, but enough to continue the puzzle that is this melody.
At the top of the paper is a note—
For you.