Anita waited by the window and sighed, her breath adding fog to the droplets of water streaming down the glass outside. She put her hand to the glass and wiped it away furtively using her sleeve. She brought her hands together close to her face as she now felt unnaturally cold.
She looked about behind her in the gloomy unlit room. In the corner, the covered piano sat silently, like the ghost of some deformed white lion from the depths of darkest Africa. It was completely still, but looked set to pounce at any moment give chase to the herd of leather chairs peacefully gathered around the small fountainous waterhole that on closer inspection became her mother's tea table on its soft blue rug. On the far wall stood a grandfather clock, watching the scene like one of the fierce Zulu tribesman her father liked to tell her stories about.
Clutching once again the candlestick at the windowsill like a weapon, Anita wondered if she should light it. No, she thought; I'll wait just a little bit longer. Besides, he'll be home soon enough, and it makes no sense to light it just now and waste a perfectly good candle. Her thoughts turned then to the scene outside.
It had been raining so long now, Anita couldn't now remember it being sunny. Emotions are like that, Anita reasoned, they had no memory; when you were sad you cannot ever remember being happy and when you're joyful, you cannot even fathom misery. Still, it wasn't the rain that bothered Anita so much. The sound of the myriad fat raindrops hitting the roof made a semi-rhythmic din that filled her ears and seemed to calm her. No. Anita was sick of the waiting.
She was waiting for him to finally come home. He had promised her 7 o'clock, but that hour had come and gone so long past that Anita didn't care to keep track of it. It didn't matter, anyway, since night had not yet fallen and he would be here soon. Well, unless of course, he was somehow caught in the storm. It could be that, you know, the bridge to Hamilton does often get flooded when it rains like this and he might have decided to take the long way around. Perhaps he has taken shelter somewhere and is waiting out the storm.
Perhaps he is injured. The thought made Anita shudder. No, no. Mustn't even think that way or I'll bring calamity down upon us both. She smiled a little. Her father had often chided her for being superstitious, always carrying lucky charms and taking exaggerated care with her silver hand mirrors. She, however, often felt that she couldn't help it and secretly believed that after all, even if it is just poppycock like father claims, it can't do me any harm. Yes, that's it, thought Anita proudly; Im not being irrational at all. I'm just being cautious.
He is taking an awfully long time though, thought Anita. She briefly thought of going to her room and climbing into bed, but quickly put the thought out of her mind. Anita was a headstrong girl, ever so fond of her adventurous and boisterous father. His stories of the campaigns in Africa were something she looked forward to now every night before going to sleep. She hadnt missed one yet and wasnt about to start tonight.
Ever since he came home from them, it had become a tradition for him to tell her some fantastic tale of brave, stout-hearted, red-coated soldiers doing battle against the Zulu hordes in their white feathers. She loved the stories of the lithe black men roaming naked and loose on the veldt, like painted escapees from the Garden of Eden and shuddered in fear as her father told her of their strange language and odder customs. The stories her father told of these fearsome shadowy hobgoblins who werent allowed to marry until they had killed a man in battle and who could run all day without ever getting tired at once horrified and fascinated her. Anitas mother disapproved of course, saying that such stories were not for the ears of a young lady, but her father, ruddy and oblivious to such stern reprimands would laugh it off and say it was all in good fun.
The wind began to pick up now, whistling and pushing the trees in the front garden this way and that. At one point, it seemed to Anita that the wind, frustrated that it couldnt uproot the ancient oaks and furious at its own impotence began howling like a wild animal, rattling the window and trying with all its might to push the house over. It was to no avail, of course. The house had stood now for over two centuries and wasnt about to surrender to this upstart zephyr any time soon.
Still, Anita was getting worried. Her father was still out in the storm somewhere, possibly cold, wet or worse asleep in some inn somewhere. Much to Anitas chagrin, her lower lip stuck itself out involuntarily into a pout. Her mother had warned her not to make that face and to maintain her expression with serene poise, like a smiling statue. Apparently, making any other kind of face was liable to give you wrinkles, a dreadful condition which often precluded old maids of twenty one or older from finding a good husband.
Her mother was terribly preoccupied with the notion that Anita marries well. Anita, of course, didnt really care. After all, she was only twelve years old. She had at least another year or so before she would even have to think about such things and besides, you only ever met boys of the right age at dreadfully boring tea parties or at dance parties. Anita loved to dance, and couldnt stand the boys with whom she had danced thus far. They had two left feet, every last one, she thought; well, both of the ones Ive danced with, at the very least.
She began to grow tired of her wait for the seemingly endless storm to end, at which point she heard a noise coming from behind her. It was faint at first, like the sound of her hair brushing past one of her ears, but grew into a very audible scrape as though the pianos stool were being pulled out from its place beneath the sleeping lion.
She turned around and saw that the piano was no longer covered, its cover lying on the floor like a dressing gown discarded before a bath. She peered into the gloom and saw that the key cover had been lifted and to her horror, the piano began to make noise. It was random and tuneless, without any sense of melody at all.
Anita stood frozen at the horror of it all. Of course, she had heard of specters who roamed the halls at night, the most famous of these being Old Nell, a boggart who purportedly haunted the cellars and was responsible for milk brought down there turning sour and bottles of wine being turned over. She was more or less regarded as a part of the furniture down there.
The girl snapped out of it and simply watched and listened as the piano beat out a melody she had never before heard. It was lively and rather simple, but the effect was something entirely different from the music she had been taught and despite the fear, she couldnt help but liking it. It was soon accompanied by a voice, no more than a whisper at first, but soon as tangible and real as the notes being rudely beaten out of the piano in the corner.
She didnt quite understand the voice, obscured as it was by a strange accent, but she did manage to snatch a bit of meaning from it:
work all day to get you money to buy you things
And its worth it just to hear you say youre going to give me everything
So why on earth should I moan
Ocourse when I get you alone
You know I feel oakey.....
The song began its nonsensical chorus now and its strange lyrics about coming home and sleeping with dogs made no sense to Anita. She didnt care now, however and regained her nerve. She grabbed the candle, screamed and bolted for the door, closing it behind her. As she did so, the music ceased abruptly, and a sound came from the room like the piano stool being knocked over as though someone got up from the piano in a hurry.
Anita ignored this and headed for her door. Opening it, she ran inside, closed it behind her, locked the door and dove into her bed and under the covers. Her house was haunted. She lit her candle, put it on the bedside table and hid under the covers. She would wait until her father came home. He would know what to do.
