The Sixth Period Visitor

It was the autumn of 2007, and I was a sixth grader at St. Agatha’s Preparatory School, a squat, brick building tucked into the outskirts of a fog-draped town in the Pacific Northwest. The school’s most distinctive feature was its music room, a converted chapel with high, arched windows that leaked amber light onto the worn piano keys and scattered music stands. I was there with my fellow student journalists, rehearsing for the regional press conference, our notebooks and drafts scattered across the long oak tables. The afternoon had been ordinary, the kind of mundane gray that made us all crave the five o’clock bell.

Suddenly, the room’s heavy wooden door slammed open with a force that rattled the stained glass. A gust of wind, cold and smelling of wet earth, tore through the room, flinging our papers like startled birds. We scrambled to catch them, laughter masking our unease. I looked outside; the willow trees were still, not a leaf stirring. The door was solid, bolted, and there was no draft. We exchanged nervous glances, but being twelve, we shrugged it off and resumed our work, convincing ourselves it was a fluke of the old building.

But the strangeness had only begun. As we settled, a faint, discordant melody started from the piano. It was a jarring, minor-key tune, like something from a forgotten music box, and it grew louder with each measure. I froze, my pen hovering. ‘Who’s playing that?’ I asked, but no one was near the piano; the keys moved on their own, pressing down in a pattern that made no sense. Then a female voice, soft and lilting, joined the melody, singing words we couldn’t decipher. My friend Clara grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. ‘There’s someone in the corner,’ she whispered, pointing.

I squinted into the dim far corner, where the afternoon light barely reached. There, a shadowy figure stood, taller than any of us, draped in what looked like a tattered black gown. It was blurred, like a smudge in the air, but unmistakably human. It tilted its head, and the singing stopped. The piano went silent. The temperature plunged, and our breath formed small clouds. My heart hammered; I wanted to run, but my legs were rooted. The figure raised a skeletal hand, its finger pointing at the window, and then it vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of mothballs and old dust.

We burst into terrified chatter, all of us swearing we saw the same thing. Some cried; others babbled about ghosts. Our advisor, Mr. Vance, a stern man with a railroad tie, came in, and we told him everything. He just shook his head, muttering about drafts and overactive imaginations, but I caught him glancing at the piano, his face paler than usual. He left, and we remained, huddled together, too scared to stay but too scared to leave the room alone.

Then it happened again. This time, the figure materialized directly in the center of the room, its face materializing into a cracked, porcelain mask with hollow eyes. It spoke, a voice that sounded like dried leaves scraping. ‘You disturb my rehearsal,’ it hissed. It pointed at me, and I felt a cold pressure on my chest, as if something was being pulled from me. I gasped, clutched my notebook. The figure then pointed at the door, and it swung open, waiting. We didn’t need a second prompting; we fled, stumbling over chairs, papers flying in our wake, and didn’t stop until we reached the main office, breathless and white as ghosts.

The school called it a prank. But we knew better. For weeks, I couldn’t go near that music room, and I suffered nightmares of a lady in white playing a piano that played itself, waiting for an audience. I researched the school’s history and found a ledger from 1952 mentioning a music teacher, Miss Etta Grovner, who died in that very room after a tragic accident. Her body was found sitting at the piano, but at an angle, as if she’d been wrenched from her seat. The official report said she choked on a piece of candy, but a caretaker’s note hinted at more.

Now, five years later, I’m a senior at St. Agatha’s, and last week, I had to cover the new music teacher’s story for the school paper. I forced myself to enter the room, which had been largely unused since. The air was stale, and the piano was draped in a dusty sheet. As I lifted the cover, a tune began to play, not on the keys, but in my head, and I saw the figure again, but this time, it was different. It was a young girl, maybe my age when I was there, with tears on her cheeks. She spoke softly, ‘I never meant to scare you. I just wanted someone to hear my song. No one listens anymore. Will you stay and listen?’ I felt a strange, cold compassion, and I played the notes she hummed, and the room grew warm. The figure faded, but for a split second, the mirror reflected not me, but her, smiling.

I decided then to write her story, hoping that telling it would free her. But as I left, I heard a whisper in my ear: ‘Thank you. Now, let’s play together again.’ I turned, and the piano was playing by itself once more. I don’t know if I freed her or invited her into my life, but there’s a part of me that still hears that melody at night, and sometimes, I wake up with my hands moving over imaginary keys, wondering if I’m the one playing, or if she’s still here, waiting for an encore.