Layla

I cover my mouth with my hand and mutter “Holy shit” against my palm. I have to be dreaming. That’s the only explanation.

“Press the A key.”

The A key makes a sound.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I completely suppress the skeptic in me and just go with my instinct this time. “I have questions,” I say. “Press middle C for yes. D for no. A if you don’t know the answer.”

Middle C presses lightly, which means yes. My voice comes out a little shaky when I ask, “Are you dangerous?”

I don’t know why I ask that. Any dangerous entity would surely deny they’re dangerous.

The D key is pressed for no.

“Are you a ghost?”

I don’t know.

“Are you dead?”

I don’t know.

“Do you know me?”

No.

I start pacing the room. My legs feel like they’re floating because I no longer have feeling in them. My skin is tingling with excitement. Or fear. They feel the same to me sometimes.

“I’m having a conversation with a piano,” I mutter. “What the fuck is happening?”

I have to be dreaming. I’m asleep right now. Either that, or someone is punking me. I’m probably on some prank show. Hell, Layla probably signed us up for a prank show to get me more notoriety.

Maybe someone outside the room is getting a kick out of this. I should ask questions no one would know the answer to unless they were here with me. I look up at the security camera. Maybe that’s it? Someone from the security company thinks this is a funny prank? I take the cover off one of the throw pillows on the couch. I toss it at the camera and cover it up.

I hold up five fingers.

“Am I holding up three fingers?”

No.

“One?”

No.

“Five?”

Yes.

I drop my arm. “Am I going crazy?” I whisper to myself.

I don’t know.

“That question wasn’t for you.” I sit on the couch and rub my hands down my face. “Are you alone?”

Yes.

I wait for a while before asking another question. I’m trying to soak up everything that’s happened in the last half hour, but I’m still trying to throw explanations at myself.

No keys are pressed while I sit in silence. My adrenaline has never been this high. I want to wake up Layla and show her what’s happening, but I’m reacting to this like I found a stray dog and not some entirely different . . . realm. Layla said that once. That she thinks there are different realms. Fuck. Maybe she was right.

It makes me want to tell her about this even more, but I’m worried it’ll freak her out. She might want to leave. We’ll have to pack our things and get in the car, and then I’ll never get answers to all the thousands of questions that have formed in the last few minutes. Like what is this thing? Who is this thing?

“Can you show yourself to me?”

No.

“Because you don’t want to?”

No.

“Because you don’t know how to?”

Yes.

I run my hands through my hair and then grip the back of my neck as I walk over to one of the bookshelves that line the walls. I need more proof that this isn’t a prank. It’s not that easy to suspend an entire lifetime of beliefs in one day.

“Pull a book off one of these shelves,” I say. A hacked security camera won’t be able to pull that off.

I stare patiently at the bookshelf in front of me.

Ten very quiet and still seconds go by; then the book I’m focused on slides out of the bookshelf and falls to the floor with a thud. I look at the book in complete disbelief.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out of it.

I pace the room for a few minutes. I think about everything that’s happened up to this point, and I think maybe I’m numb. In disbelief.

“Do you have a name?”

Yes.

“What is it?”

Nothing happens. No keys are pressed. I realize the question can’t be answered using one of the piano keys. I’ve started working out a way words can be spelled out using piano keys when I hear a noise. I look over at my laptop, which is sitting on top of the piano. It’s opening.

My Word document pulls up.

Letters are being typed into the Word document.

W . . . i . . . l . . . l . . . o . . . w . . .

I take a quick step away from the laptop.

I’m extremely uneasy now.

Before, with the piano, I felt like I still had a small sliver of a chance at explaining it away. A faulty piano key. A mouse in the strings. Something.

But after the book, and now this—this is a full-on conversation with . . . nothing. No one is here but me, so that only leaves one explanation.

Ghosts are real.

And this one’s name is Willow.

I stare at the computer for so long the screen goes dark. Then my laptop shuts, all by itself, no wires attached, no explanation—this is insane, good fucking night.