The Ghost Sonata by JENNIFER ALLISON Page B

aloud. There was no answer. She squinted into the dim light, but the face did not reappear.
    Gilda was about to run to Wendy’s room to tell her what she had seen, but then she reminded herself that the first round of the competition was the next morning. She knew Wendy hated being awakened in the middle of the night.
    Gilda stood up and decided to type a report of her experience instead:

    Gilda stopped typing and listened. The house was perpetually noisy in the night: every few seconds she heard sighing, creaking, and gurgling sounds that might be old pipes or shingles loosening in the wind—or something far stranger. Now more fully awake, she felt her heart beating faster and a prickling sensation in her limbs.
    Leaving the dim light on, Gilda practically dove back into her sagging bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Again, she thought of running to Wendy’s room but resolved to let her best friend get some sleep the night before her competition.
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    Wendy sat down, adjusted the piano bench, and placed her hands on the keys. Something was wrong: she couldn’t remember the opening notes of her first piece—the “Gigue” of the Bach French Suite in G Major. She glanced into the audience and saw her parents sitting at her mother’s manicure table, surrounded by tiny bottles of blood-red nail polish and watching with hopeful, fearful anticipation. Wendy closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, but something blocked her memory of the first measures of her music. Instead, she could only remember a single musical phrase—a simple melody in A minor.
    Play it , someone urged her. She began to play the notes she heard in her mind, and when she looked up again, she saw her parents’ crestfallen faces.
    Wendy suddenly awoke to the sound of real piano music—a simple, sad melody that reminded her of a folk song. The music came from somewhere in the house, possibly in a room right next to hers. Or was it coming from a floor below?
    Who’s practicing at this time of night? Wendy wondered, still half asleep and feeling lulled by the lyrical, melancholy mood of the music. Maybe that’s why I incorporated that music into my dream.
    Then, as she became more lucid, Wendy felt a shiver of fear. Hadn’t Mrs. Luard mentioned there was no piano in Wyntle House?
    She pulled the covers over her head and hugged her knees to her chest. Abruptly, the music stopped.
    Wendy lay in the darkness with her heart pounding, listening to a thick silence punctuated by the eerie hissing of the radiator. She wanted to run across the hallway to ask whether Gilda had also heard the music, but she somehow couldn’t make herself throw off the covers, expose herself to the chilly air, and step into the darkness of the hallway by herself. She had no idea what, exactly, she was afraid of, but she had the distinct feeling that somebody might be waiting for her in the hallway.
    Wendy lay awake long into the night, listening to every groan and creak of the house, wishing that she could somehow forget her fears and drift into sleep.

11

    The Ritual
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    Rain drummed upon the windowpanes and wind whistled across the roofs of terraced houses. Gilda glanced at her travel alarm clock and thought she must still be dreaming. How could it already be 8:15 A.M.? Why hadn’t her alarm gone off, and why hadn’t Wendy knocked on her door? Maybe Wendy decided to leave extra-early to practice before her performance , Gilda reasoned. Still, she could have at least tried to wake me up.
    Shivering, Gilda sprang out of bed, grabbed a towel, and hurried into the hallway. She discovered Jenny Pickles exiting the bathroom, her wet, red hair wrapped in a towel turban.
    â€œThat bathtub in there is totally deesgustin’,” Jenny declared. “I’d rather be hosed down in the backyard.”
    â€œI thought it looked pretty grotty,” said Gilda, who was surprised to hear Jenny speak with a slight