CREEPYPASTA

The Piano Man

It started sometime before the sun rose, during that time of the night that brings such a profound silence that you start hearing those eerie, high-pitched ringing noises that remain indiscernible while the light of day shines. They’re faint, like little rainbows made by a cloud of mist in the summer, when the sprinklers are turned on and chugging away like trains without wheels. And like those rainbows, they might shift if you move a little or disappear if your vantage point isn’t right. The ringing is like a phantom that you never discover. You just go on day to day disregarding it in indifference.

That’s what you’re supposed to do: disregard them.

I made the mistake of listening too closely.

***

It was a summer evening in late July, when the sun likes to linger around in the warm evenings. The clouds had been scarce and the blue sky aplenty. Children ran around outside during the day, bathing in freedom and sunlight. My sister, who was just 6 years old, ran among them. Her name was Abby and her little blond pigtails would whip back and forth like swings on the playground as she bounced over the chalk hopscotch in our next door neighbors’ driveway. She always wore little pink sunglasses that she refused to take off, even when she was inside. I was 16 at the time. I was tall for my age but still cruelly held half an inch under six feet. My hair hadn’t been cut for a while and it hung down over my eyes like an ugly brown curtain that housekeepers hate. I was a little bit socially awkward. I only had a few friends and I didn’t play any sports. I spent most of my time playing the piano and I couldn’t see far past that at all. Most of my summer was spent on my sitting at my sadly cheap electric piano, playing through new and old pieces and occasionally glancing out the window to make sure my sister was okay. She was a precious little thing, but my parents were somewhat indifferent to the two of us, spending most of their days at work and only occasionally greeting us when they came home, providing for us just the bare minimum for food and clothes, providing me with money for piano lessons but not a way to get there (I usually had to ride my bike even if it was raining.)

The biggest surprise of my summer (at that point) was when my father drove home on that summer evening with a piano cabled and tarped in the back of his 4 by 4. I furrowed my eyebrows as I looked out the window from my usual spot by the window, wondering what could possibly be hiding under that blue tarp.

When I came out to the drive way, my father was removing the cables, looking unusually proud.

“Today’s your lucky day, Samuel!” My father said as he pulled the tarp off.

It was a baby grand piano. It looked like it had been through two world wars and a zombie apocalypse. Huge chunks the wood it was made out of were missing and the E5 key was gone, leaving an empty socket. Dents and pockmarks covered it like acne and part of the left leg was absent, giving it a rickety look.

“What? How did you get this?” I said in disbelief.

“Some old lady had a garage sale. Said she just wanted to get rid of it, she even gave it to me for free. I didn’t ask any questions.” My father told me nonchalantly.

“That’s awesome, Dad! Thanks so much!”

Later that day, we moved it into my room, replacing my old electric piano, which I kept in the basement just for sentimental value. I tried playing a couple of pieces on it and I was pleased to find that the sound wasn’t actually that bad. The intonation quality decreased as the pitch got lower, but it was certainly an improvement. It felt nice to have a real keyboard with authentic sounds instead of a plastic one that might literally sound like a cat if I pressed the wrong  button.

My sister was so enamoured by the new piano that she asked me to teach her to play when she first saw it. I tried teaching her hot cross buns, but she gave up after two minutes of frustration.