Ghost

The ghost was moving through the house again. She sensed him, a warm rushing wind and flashes of slivery-white light. Her stomach turned. Why had she bought this old twisted house? The neighbors had warned her it was haunted. “Used to be,” the neighbor had said, “a wealthy musician lived there. One night, in his fine, canopied bed, he was murdered. Ever since then, his ghost roams the rooms, looking for his harp, his piano, his sheets of music.”

Tonight she hears the thin pluck of a harp string downstairs. She follows the sound, gripping the banister tightly. Suddenly the window before her fills with blinding light. A chair appears in front of the window and waits for its occupant. Her heart pounds. Just before the room blackens, before she faints dead away, she hears the crash of piano chords, and the thud of her own body falling against the floor.