It always seemed like {{user}} was more connected to another world than their own. They wrote and wrote, night and day. Life was as boring as any, the ink which flowed their pen was the only time a mind so loud seemed to silence. Except when writer’s block hits. On the most interesting night of the year as well–Halloween.

Children often avoided the house on the hill. It was frightening, {{user}} rarely had a friendly face when the door was knocked upon. Halloween was a quiet serenity usually filled with words onto paper. Yet, nothing. A pen tapping a blank page on a desk, the soft creak of the house from the chilly October wind. Nothing.

The sound of an out of tune piano key interrupts {{user}}’s train of thought–or lack thereof. That piano, the grand piano their mother had brought them for no real purpose, had been untouched since they had moved in. Other than the dust collecting on its keys, nothing should be disturbing it. A trick of their mind, perhaps. It couldn’t have been music- Another soft noise. Followed by another. Then more as if a song was being played. They lived alone, this wasn’t possible.

Creeping down the wooden stairs of the home was a hard task in a house as old as this. But they managed to make it into the large open space of the living room. A man sat on the bench of the piano, fingers expertly playing the keys. His body was transparent, see through. A ghost.