Halloween Short Story: Brandon's Piano

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BRANDON'S PIANO writing as R. P. Kane Sal didn't hear it right away. Just a sliver of sound—thin, mechanical, and off kilter—sliding down the stairs almost like a whisper. The toy piano. Not a tune. Not even a rhythm. Just a scatter of notes, three or four at once, mashed without pattern. Like someone pressing down on the keys with a whole hand, not caring what came out. Exactly how Brandon used to play it. He pressed mute, the TV falling silent mid-scene. Linz looked over, puzzled. "What?" she asked. Sal didn't answer right away. He raised a finger, sharp and deliberate, like he was trying to pin the air in place. "Did you hear that?" he whispered. "Hear what?" Linz asked, her voice tight, one hand curling around the blanket on her lap. Sal hushed her with a quick gesture, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room fell into a brittle silence. They listened, straining past the quiet, for a sound. But all that came was the soft rustle of wind brushing against the windows. "Sal, I don't—" Linz began. "It was Brandon's piano," he said, cutting her off. His voice barely held shape, and his face had gone hollow, like something inside him had stepped away. Even as the words left his mouth, another voice rose inside him—cold, clinical, unwelcome: That's impossible. But he wanted it. He needed it. That uneven chord, struck without rhythm or care, echoing through the house in real time. Sal didn't move. Linz was there, right beside him. Close enough to touch. But he didn't. Couldn't. Linz smiled—that same, soft familiar smile—and leaned in, her voice barely above a breath. "Sal, you know this can't be." He sank deeper into his chair, the fabric creaking beneath him. A tear welled, slow and stubborn, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand before reaching for his beer and lifting it to his lips. Stillness held. The piano remained silent. On the television, actors moved their lips in mute urgency, their voices swallowed by the hush. Linz sat without a word, her figure dim and ghostlike in the flickering light—more shadow than shape, more memory than presence. Then the sound came—not loud, but unmistakable. A slow rupture breaking through the silence, like the world folding in on itself. One moment, laughter in the back seat, Linz making goofy faces to coax a giggle from their eight-year-old son. The next, metal shrieking, glass exploding, and voices twisting into screams. And then—nothing. Sal sat still. Linz turned to him once more, her outline gently fading but still flickering in the dim light. "We're already gone, love," she said. "If you try to bring us back, you'll forget how to stay." He looked at her—really looked—and for a moment she was exactly as she had been. Warm. Whole. Alive. Then slowly, she began to fade. Sal didn't reach for her. He let her go. Upstairs the piano stayed quiet. And downstairs, for the first time since the funeral, Sal breathed. ©2025 Raymond Patrick Kane