The house had stood empty for years before we moved in.
“This is our forever home,” Father always said.
Even Brahms—my brother who had just turned eight—knew that wouldn't be the case.
Ever since we set foot in this place, Brahms and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Whenever I turned my head toward a strange noise, nothing was ever there. I swear I saw something moving.
It was our sixth night. Brahms and I were about to sleep when Father and Mother waved goodbye.
“Guard the house for us, kids! We’ll bring food back home,” Father said.
“Be safe!” I replied.
Everything seemed normal, until the lights flickered. I brushed it off at first. But as I shut my eyes, what I heard next sent chills down my spine. A soft piano melody echoed faintly through the hallway. It sounded familiar.
“Do you hear that?” I whispered to Brahms.
“Yes,” Brahms replied, eyes wide.
If it was an intruder, I had to call the police. But the phone was in the living room, just past where the piano sits.
“Wait here. I’ll call the police,” I said.
“No! Don’t leave me alone. I’m coming with you,” Brahms begged.
“Fine. Just be very, very quiet,” I warned him.
So we crept out of bed and followed the sound downstairs. With every step, the melody grew louder. It sounded like the lullaby Grandma used to play for Brahms when he was six. Before she passed.
But something didn’t sound right. Notes clashed as if someone, or something, intentionally pressed the wrong thing.
I had planned to go straight to the phone, but curiosity got the best of me. I reached for the door that separated us and the piano and slowly pushed it.
I wasn’t ready for what I saw.
The old piano was playing itself. In the darkness, two glowing eyes stared straight into my soul. Adrenaline surged through me as I slammed the light switch.
I was ready to scream when two black cats—as startled as we were—leapt from the piano and bolted out of the room.
Brahms and I burst into laughter, relieved. But deep down, something still didn’t feel right.
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