Good evening, it’s Spooky Boo coming to you from the haunted radio waves of Sandcastle, California. Northern California’s hardest to find town. It’s so difficult to find they refuse to put it on the map.
So here we are again, listening to those haunted stories from the depths of the internet. These three spooky, scary creepypasta stories about pianos and players will play their haunting music in your head over and over again and that is why I enjoy telling them. As a piano player myself, albeit not a great one, I rather enjoyed reading these magical words of doom and I will enjoy bringing them to you. Of course, what would a trio of good piano stories be without the musical talent of a gifted player? Tonight’s episode features the beautiful and yet haunting music from the composer Myuu.
If you would like to know how to support the show, visit www.scarystorytime.com/support or stay tuned to the end of the show to find out more about others who enjoy supporting Spooky Boo’s Scary Story Time.
Now let’s begin….
The Piano and the House
A Creepypasta
The house was built in the late 1900’s and had been owned by two previous owners before Damion’s grandmother; a farmer and his wife, who had died shortly after purchasing the house, and a lost family whose file was unavailable. This made me paranoid, since I believed in paranormal things like ghosts and hauntings; but Damion convinced me that it was nothing. “They probably just lost the file in a fire or something, don’t think too much about it,” he had told me, trying to make me feel better about going on the trip. I had agreed in haste, but uncertainty was still there.
We soon reached the old farm building, and the hair on the back of my head stood on end. The building wasn’t much to look at, it was made of wood which was rotting from age, the deck had been repaired and looked new but the rest of the building looked desolate and decomposed. The windows were broken and those that weren’t broken were covered in a green mold-like substance, that smelled musty and disgusting.
Damion smiled weakly at me, and I sighed, grabbing my stuff and bringing it inside. The door creaked loudly as I opened it, and it got stuck when it was halfway open, so I had to kick it the rest of the way. “This place is a dump,” I had mumbled as I walked in; the inside worse than the outside. The wallpaper was peeling off the rotting wood and some of the floorboards were broken, cracked, or sticking out of place. The furniture was soaked and molded over, and some of the fabric was torn. Out of everything in the room, there was one thing that truly caught my attention amongst the rubble and discord – a black piano in the corner. It had flowers hand-carved on the painted wood, the keys were pure white and black, and it seemed in almost perfect condition.
“What’s that?” I asked Damion as he walked in. He had looked at the piano and smiled gently but unsure, as if he were trying to find a way to explain it. Soon he had taken a deep breath and explained to me what it was. As I listened to him explaining, my curiosity and desire for the piano started growing. He told me that the piano had been there since before his grandmother had lived in the house, yet she never moved it. The previous owners never gave it to anyone in their will when they died.
But what was stranger than that, was the fact that no one in Damion’s family had ever played or touched the piano. Almost as if the instrument was insignificant. Like it was nothing more than a speck of dust in an arid desert.
I asked him more and more questions, most of them revolving around the piano and the house. My curiosity was taking its toll and Damion soon became annoyed and stopped answering my questions. He took me to a spare bedroom since he was taking his grandmother’s room, then we unpacked and got settled into our home for a few weeks.
That night when me and Damion were watching television in the living room, my eyes kept wandering towards the old piano in the corner. Damion wasn’t paying attention to me, because the t.v. was on. I stood up and slowly walked towards the piano. I stroked the keys which felt oddly cold even though the piano was close to the fireplace which was burning a blazing inferno.
I pressed down on one of the keys gently, but no sound came out. So I pushed a little harder…Still, however, no sound came out. I got frustrated and started pressing on multiple keys trying to get sound out of it, but I couldn’t do it. I sighed and walked out of the room, frustrated by the piano. I went to the spare room and went to sleep on the uncomfortable bed.
That night I woke up to a scratching noise on the wall. It was quiet but distinct. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding in my chest. The room was cold, colder than it should have been at that moment. I stood up, my heart racing from something I couldn’t explain, a feeling of terror perhaps.
My adrenaline was pumping as I walked out of the room. I kept a close eye on the surroundings around me. I heard the gentle playing of a piano. It wasn’t very loud or obnoxious, and it played three keys, being played over and over. The piano sounded sad even though not much was being played.
I walked into the living room and saw a little girl dressed in an old white gown. She said nothing, but she was playing the piano with a melancholy look on her face. As I watched her, I got lost in her sorrowful face. I almost didn’t notice the music suddenly getting more violent and wrathful.
Soon she slammed her hands on the keyboard and everything went silent. I held my breath as I watched her get up from the bench then turn to me. She stayed silent and so did I. She raised her arm slowly and scratched on the wall gently. I kept my eyes on her and out of the corner of my eye I saw what she was doing. She carved: “Get out” on the wall.
I took my eyes away from her and looked at the wall as she let out a blood-curdling scream. I wanted to run but I couldn’t move. My body was paralyzed with fear. She backed up and mumbled something in an unknown language, then left the house without another word.
I never saw her again after that, but the next day the house burned down. Damion and I left the property and never spoke of it again. The only thing that survived the fire was that old piano. No one questioned it and no one got rid of it.
It just sits in the rubble, waiting for the next person to touch it and summon its lone player.
The Piano Keys
A Creepypasta
“Amaya, proceed with your song, ‘Clair De Lune.’ I hope you’ve been practicing,” Ms. White says.
I walk up to the grand piano on the stage. A grin spreads over my face. I have practiced, and hopefully it pays off today. I sit on the small stool, stretch out my fingers, and then begin. It starts out soft and smooth at first: just enough to quickly make me fall in love with it all over again. I wasn’t a fan of Clair De Lune before, but once I really heard it out I couldn’t stop listening to it.
I keep on playing like it’s a power ballad: I can even see the amazed look on Ms. White’s face, among with all the other students in the auditorium. Even more dramatically I play, I imagine myself up on the stage of the city theater, performing Clair De Lune while everyone in the theater looks on in awe, just wishing they could be as good as I am.
Once I’m done, loud clapping comes from the teachers and students. “Wonderful,” Ms. White says. “Remember to keep practicing for the concert. You don’t want to forget the notes.” I already have all of them memorized in my head. Practicing like my life depended on it (which it did) was tiring, but I couldn’t care about my current state: I needed to keep practicing for that gold.
Later, class is over while students pour out of the auditorium. My friend Julia runs up to me with a hyperactive smile on her face and says, “Amaya, that was the best piano solo I’ve ever heard! How did you get so good?” I nod, slightly laughing. “Practicing a lot really helps.” Julia’s normally happy face turns to a soft, sad one. “Aww…I wish I could be as good as you.”
I think, pondering for a while. “You know, I can give you lessons at my house,” I say. Julia is feeling like herself again, and says, “That would be wonderful! See you then!” She waves goodbye to me, and I run outside and into the open car door that awaits me. It’s my mom’s car. Smiling, she says, “Hi, honey! How was music practice?” Looking out the window, I say, “Like you’d never believe…”
We arrive at home after a few minutes. As Mom and I are walking up the steps, she says, “Amaya, you know…” I tilt my head to the side and say, “Hm? What?”
She makes a funny expression as she does when she’s thinking and says, “You’ve been practicing a LOT….I mean, you spend so many hours on that piano. What’s gotten into you?” I take a deep sigh and say, “Nothing’s wrong with me. I think I’m just obsessed with Clair De Lune, that’s all.” Mom says, with a plain expression on her face, “Oh. That makes sense, I guess.”
It isn’t until days later I realize my obsession must come with consequence. I walk up to the grand piano on the stage again and sit on the stool. But unlike my perfect performance I executed days ago, the tune I play sounds empty. Ms. White doesn’t seem pleased, rather she seems bored. I would be bored too, but the thing is, I spent all night practicing.
I manage to play out a few more notes until my body feels completely numb. All of a sudden, it feels like a heavy weight is being dropped on my head. “What’s happening?” I think. In a few seconds, my eyes shut and my head lands on the piano with the biggest slam of the keys I’ve ever heard: not even slamming it with your fists is as bad as this.
I wake up in the hospital. I’m circled by friends and family members. My mom’s eyes are red, like’s she’s been crying all day for me. Julia just hangs her head low in sadness. The doctor goes on. “You’re awake. You passed out straight on the piano. What happened?”
My head feels so dizzy. I manage to mumble, “Uh…didn’t get sleep…practiced on piano all night…felt tired then passed out.” The doctor nods and says, “You must have an obsession with the piano, Amaya.” I nod. I then get the worst news: I have to stay away from pianos for 8 weeks! That afternoon, I have to go home in a cranky mood. It just isn’t fair anymore.
One day, my parents go to the supermarket to get groceries. I have a burning desire to play the piano, but what if I get in trouble? No…fear of getting in trouble is something I can’t worry about now. I begin to play Clair De Lune. I’ve got the hang of it: I begin to play harder. I’m thinking I should stop, but another half is saying to keep playing: I’m at my best moment. I slam on the piano: too hard. A key of the piano pops out and tumbles to the carpet.
A few days later, I’m in class. My parents didn’t know about the piano incident. But I’m curious about the auditorium. I decide I’ve had enough and lie to my teacher, “Can I go to the bathroom?” She nods, and instantly I make a dash for the auditorium. The grand piano is still there, and with eagerness I run up to the stage. A key has been bashed in and easy to yank out: It’s the exact key I broke on the piano. I decide to use it.
After shoving it into my pocket, once I get back to class I put it in my backpack to test it out at home, hoping it will still work after I slammed my head into that piano that can only be blamed by no sleep.
When I get home, I pop the key into the piano, and it fits perfectly. Satisfied, I sit down to play Clair De Lune. However, when I pressed that key, it made a noise unlike the tune it was normally supposed to play: it sounded horrible. But I didn’t mind. I just kept playing. Mixed with the kind-of-off Clair De Lune, small, short whispers could be heard, but I just ignored them: maybe I was hallucinating.
As I kept playing, more whispers could be heard. When I stopped playing, the voices kept on going. They said, “Return those keys or suffer the consequence.” I yelled at the voice, whatever it was, “NO! YOU CAN’T STOP ME!” As soon as I said that, my vision got blurry. Oh god, I’m going to faint, I think. But my fingers are sliding across the piano, and when I hit the last note, I faint.
I wake up in my bed. I can’t see anything. The voices say that they took my will to see. When my eyes are closed, I do not remember things easily. And they did this to make sure I forget Clair De Lune. So that’s it then. I’ll never be a pianist, no matter how much I try, I’ll never pass.
