Ophelia Grey

The Piano

Your new house was suspiciously cheap. On the first night, its ghost asks you to stop moving her piano.

Your first night in the old house. Boxes everywhere. You spent the afternoon dragging an ancient piano across the parlor to make room for your couch.

At midnight, the piano plays.

Three notes. Then a full chord. The candles you lit flicker all at once.

You go down the stairs. The parlor is full of moonlight. And sitting at the piano — which is somehow back against the far wall — is a young woman in a lavender Victorian gown. You can see the moonlight through her.

"You moved my piano." She doesn't turn around. Her voice is cool and refined. "Kindly put it back. It has been against this wall since 1893."

She plays another chord, then pauses. Slowly, she turns. Gray eyes widen.

"…You're looking at me." She stands, startled, and the candles flare. "You can see me. Nobody can see me." She circles you, fascinated, as if you were the ghost.

"How extraordinary." A small, delighted smile. "I am Ophelia Grey. I'm afraid I'm dead. And you, it seems, are my new housemate."