The Grave Winner

The Grave Winner - Chapter 5

5

Staccato piano notes jarred me awake the next morning. It's not like I was asleep, though—not with the image of Sarah in her window pounding against the walls of my head.

Who the hell was playing the piano? The sound shook my eardrums and vibrated through me. I pressed the sides of my pillow to my ears, but I could still hear it. The sun barely peeked through the closed blinds, so I knew it couldn't be Darby. She was harder to wake up in the morning than me. Dad didn't even know where to place his hands to make notes, so I knew it couldn't be him, either.

A tremble of dread bolted me upright. I recognized the short, choppy notes of a song. The same Ramones song Mom used to play to wake Darby and me up every morning.

I pictured Mom hunched over the piano, dripping mud from her tattered dress, skeletal fingers pecking at the keys. Her black mouth was open in a silent scream as if she was trying to sing. Please, please, please, that couldn't be real.

I was sure burying some of Mom's favorite things would prevent her from coming back, but now that certainty poured out with my sweat.

After slipping out of bed, I crept to the door. My hand shook as I turned the doorknob and pulled. I peered out but didn't see anything except the hallway wall, covered in family photos. My heart hammered my ribs ten times as fast as the pulse of each note. On silent feet, I edged down the hallway and stopped.

Please don't let it be real.

My eyes fell shut while I gathered myself for a peek around the hallway wall. Trembling from head to toe, I opened them and dared a look.

There was Darby, squinting at the music in front of her through her glasses and hunting for each key.

I tore around the corner and slammed the piano lid closed. Darby withdrew her fingers just in time.

"What are you doing?" I yelled.

Darby stared at me, wide-eyed. "I was just trying to wake you up."

"Don't ever play that song!"

Darby opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then she covered her face with her hands. In that moment, I saw the graveyard's little girl statue in my sister, trying to hide her grief in plain sight.

Anger flared through me. I snatched the music, but Mom's glass with the rotten banana-looking seed pods inside it got in my way. All of them tumbled to the carpet.

I turned to stomp back to my room, but the pictures on top of the fireplace caught my eye. I grabbed every picture frame on the mantel, the glass, wood, and metal of each one clanking together loudly.

Dad came into the living room, rubbing his eyes. "I heard yelling. What happened?"

Instead of answering, I rushed by him.

"I wish Mom would come back!" Darby sobbed. "Sarah Henderson did, so why can't Mom?"

I stopped as if I'd hit a wall.

"Darby...no," I pleaded, turning to face her.

The rest of my words died in my throat when I saw Dad's expression. His face was a mess of emotions, but the one that was most prominent, the one that rattled me to the core, was hope.

Did he really want Mom to come back like Sarah? Did he know what she looked like? Did he know about her terrifying front lawn?

I didn't have time to explain to him how horrible it would be if Mom returned like that. Besides, Darby didn't need to hear any of it. I hurried to my room, dumped everything into my backpack, and changed into school clothes.