12. The Ghost
The Ghost
She has taken to playing in the evenings after dinner when the rest of the house is winding down.
She’s always alone, always completely engrossed in the music, so that she does not even notice the few times she’s drawn me from my hiding place behind the wall.
I’ll be halfway across the room before I realize I’m no longer in the safety of the shadows.
Being in her space is addictive. Knowing I could touch her.
She is within reach.
It is dark, almost midnight when she finishes, only a few soft lights holding the night at bay. She always leaves them on when she exits the parlor. Is she scared of the dark? Or something else?
Most nights, I follow her back to her room. My old room. I’ve become bold, following behind in the hall, a few paces back, silent, so she never even knows.
She’s beginning to sleep more soundly. Those first few nights, she wrestled fitfully in her sleep. But now she slumbers the whole night with barely a movement, her lithe limbs encased in the sheets.
Except some nights, her heart races, and she moves, restless. Eyes popping open to the dark. Wandering around the room, unseeing. Like the veil hasn’t lifted from her mind, and yet here she walks amongst the living.
She’s looking for me. The source of her torment.
Something plagues her.
It’s easy to slink into Leo’s office at night. He locks the door, but I know the code on the keypad—his birthday. It’s so obvious, I’m almost disappointed, but you can’t expect anything else from a man like him.
The office holds remnants of the Beauchenes that came before him: the painted portrait of his great-grandfather hanging behind the desk, the bookcases with gilded editions in neat rows, an array of the newest monitors on the antique walnut desk, which is polished to a shine.
His father’s paperweight, the family’s bible in a locked case against the wall, over which an old hunting rifle is hung. Not a single speck of dust.
With the light off, I am still able to find my way around, having broken in many times before. But is it really breaking and entering if this is my house too?
I sink into the plush leather chair. The password to the computer—the same as the door.
An hour later, with the entirety of the internet at my fingertips, I’ve found out more than enough about our new tutor.
A high school student from the city that found herself at one of the most prestigious music colleges in the northeast. Four years earning a degree in musical performance, graduating with academic honors.
No clubs or societies. One single interview on the music department’s news page, from two years ago.
She planned to continue at the school and earn her Master’s.
It lists her accolades in the school’s symphony, and her mentor.
Jason Howard. DMA candidate.
Both of them, so close to the finish line.
And then—
Nothing.
It’s not hard to find out what happened there. A quick search, and the end result of that is only a few clicks away.
My Mallary is no good girl.