Layla

I continue scrolling through the comments until I come across someone with the username UncoverInc. I click on his profile, and the description makes me laugh. Ghosts are people too.

Wow. They really take this shit seriously.

I scroll back to his comment and read it.

Have you tried talking to your ghost yet?

That one comment started a thread of other comments.

I can’t even read them. I can’t take any of them seriously when they’re claiming to have had conversations with ghosts.

I close my laptop, feeling sympathy for all the people who spend so much time in that chat room.

Even if ghosts existed, how the hell would I communicate with one?

As much as I’m trying to put my own intellect above all the people in that forum, I still catch myself looking around the Grand Room. I look behind me, in front of me.

I make sure Layla isn’t anywhere near me when I whisper, “Is someone here?”

Nothing happens.

No one responds.

That’s because ghosts don’t fucking exist, Leeds.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I’m now on the same playing field as the crazies in the forum.

I stand up and stretch my arms over my head. I look around the room, waiting another few seconds, as if someone is actually going to respond to that question.

I finally shake my head at how absurd my thoughts have been the last few days. I walk toward the door and grip the handle, and then an unexpected sound forces me to pause in my tracks.

One of the piano keys just played.

It was so loud I recognized exactly which key it was that made the noise. Middle C.

I close my eyes.

That did not just happen.

I slowly turn around, eyes still shut, not sure what I’m expecting to find when I open them. Maybe my laptop fell onto the piano keys? My pulse is pounding so violently—I can feel it in my neck.

I open one eye . . . then the other.

There’s no one at the piano. No one in the room but me.

I immediately pull my phone out of my pocket, open the app for the security cameras, and watch the playback of the last thirty seconds.

The app shows me standing up from the piano. Stretching. I keep my eyes on the footage of the piano. As soon as I reach out for the door handle, middle C on the piano is pressed by nothing.

The key just . . . played itself.

There was nothing there. Absolutely nothing.

There is no way that can be explained.

My first instinct is to run, but my second instinct—the part of me that finds this fascinating—wins out.

“Do that again,” I say, walking closer to the piano.

A few seconds pass, and then the same key plays itself again.

I take a quick step back.

My knees feel like they’re about to give out. “Fuck.” I bend over, staring at the piano. I take in a slow breath.

I want to ask another question. I want to ask a million questions. But the reality of this moment is too heavy for me to accept. This is where I draw the line, apparently, because I’m walking toward the door. Rushing. Running. Halfway up the stairs, I pause and press my back against the wall.

I think back to every ghost story I’ve ever laughed at. Every fairy tale I’ve never believed in.

Could I really be wrong?

Incredulity begins to simmer inside of me, or maybe it’s fear. How can I have been wrong my whole life? I’ve always been able to explain everything. These last few days have been the only time in my life I haven’t been able to explain something away.

I can either continue to run from that, or I can confront it. Figure it out. Put my mind at ease.

I think about the idiots in scary movies that never run when they should, but I empathize with them now. The need to disprove the thing that’s scary is greater than the need to run from the potential harm it might bring.

I’m not convinced this is something I should be scared of. I’m convinced it’s something I should investigate.

When I’m back in the room, I close myself inside. I realize most sane people would be in the rental car right now, getting the hell away from this place. I’m still not sure that won’t be me in a few minutes.

“Who are you?” I ask, staring at the piano, my back pressed to the door in case I need a quick escape.

I wait for an answer but realize a question like that can’t be answered with the stroke of a piano key.

I hesitate before finally walking to the piano. I look behind it. Beneath it. Inside of it. There are no wires . . . no setups that would allow someone to be doing this.

“Press a different key.”

The D key is played this time, almost immediately.