MR. LARSON'S PIANO

TWELVE

That evening, we ate our dinner in relative silence. I think we were all just still shocked silent. There was almost no talk as we slurped down the vegetable soup Marcy had prepared. None of us got within five feet of the piano and Micah refused to even look at it. If he had to walk through the living room going to the bathroom or his bedroom, he would cup his little fists around his eyes to keep the piano out of his field of vision.

After the kids were asleep, Marcy and I lay in bed finally discussing the strangeness we had experienced earlier that day. My idea, I told her, was to get my 8-pound wood splitter axe out of the garage and show that piano, and Harold Larson, exactly who's fucking boss around this house.

"We can't do that," she said. And her tone when she said it was not in the sense that she didn't want it to happen, but that she was almost afraid of what would happen if I did smash the damn thing into firewood.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, recognizing her tone.

There was fear on her face. "I just mean that... We don't know what could happen if you destroy the piano. I mean, what if it like pisses the ghost off even more?"

She shook her head, as if doing so would reset her thoughts, and then began again. "I've just heard that a lot of times, that when you're dealing with something like this... a ghost, or a haunting, or whatever the hell you want to call it, that it's because you brought something into your house that a spirit was attached to."

"You mean like the Annabelle doll," I stated more than asked. We had watched all The Conjuring movies, so I knew Marcy would know what I was getting at.

"Exactly!" she said. "So, what if you go in there and 'show him who's fucking boss', as you so aptly put it, and tear up the thing he's attached to... I mean, it obviously has meaning for him or he wouldn't be following the goddamned thing around everywhere..."

"You're afraid if I tear it down, he'll just become even more angry and stronger and never leave the house," I said.

But Marcy had another one of her looks in her eyes.

"What is it?" I asked.

"The Wilsons," she said flatly. "I can just about guarantee you that they had issues with Mr. Larson's ghost too, and that's why they gave the piano away to us... to get the spirit out of their house."

"Maybe," I offered.

Marcy had a determined look on her face. "I think... yeah. I'm going to call them tomorrow and see what they say."

I stifled a small chuckle. "You don't think it's gonna' be a little weird calling up people we've only met once in our lives and ask them if they believe in ghosts? And even if they did, what are they going to say to make our situation any better? Tell us to give the piano away and make Mr. Larson someone else's problem like they did? And that's considering that they would even confess to something like that if they did give the piano away for that reason. I mean, I know it's not a crime to do something like that, but it's still a pretty shitty thing to do to someone else. So, who knows if they'd even 'fess up?"

"Maybe not," Marcy said. "But I still feel like I'm supposed to try."

I considered a moment. I really didn't care for the way she said she felt like she was supposed to try-like she was getting some kind of psychic beckoning or otherworldly force that was leading her to do something that she needed to follow. I realized that we were dealing with something supernatural, but I didn't know how far down that rabbit hole I was personally prepared to go.

If I had my way about it, I'd just manhandle that damn piano outside, throw a tow strap around it, and drag it out into the woods behind the house with my pickup truck. And if Mr. Larson wanted to haunt the woods and live with the deer, racoons, and cottonmouths, then that was completely up to him. But then again, that was considering he'd actually follow the piano out the front door and leave us all the hell alone.