“Well at least it’s not that bad of a place,” I said glancing at the huge grand piano in the middle of the room. I looked over to my parents and glared at them.
“Sheryl,” my mother warned. “You know very well that we couldn’t go anywhere in this weather.”
I sighed and looked out of the window. Snow was falling rapidly. When we went inside of this old hotel I had to trudge through snow that was knee deep. Dad and Mom were intimidated by the snow, what could you expect for someone who lived in California all their life?
Even so, why did I have to get stuck with them? Of course I couldn’t drive yet but couldn’t they go a little further?
Dad said to the clerk at the window, “We need a room for the night until this blizzard ends.”
The clerk looked out the window. “Yes,” she said in a soft voice, her eyes darting nervously. “Until the blizzard ends.”
I raised my eyebrow. Why was she scared?
“We need two rooms,” I said to Dad. “I want to practice, remember?” He looked at me and saw my backpack. I smiled.
“Is that backpack attached to you?” he murmured.
“Remember, music is the language of the world,” I said smiling.
He rolled his eyes and turned to the clerk. “Do you mind if she plays the clarinet here?” he asked jerking his thumb towards me. Her face paled.
“Well, I suppose if she wants, it’s not like nobody plays an instrument here.” Then she leaned over her pale face firming. “She cannot have another room to play in though.”
Dad looked confused. “I can pay for it.”
“I don’t care. The only room that’s available other than your room is haunted.”
“What?” Now Dad looked really surprised. He started laughing. “You mean you actually believe in ghosts?”
Mom stepped in before Dad could make it worse. “What sort of ghost is this?” she asked.
The clerk leaned towards her. “A trumpet player haunts it. It turns out there was a trumpet player in the rooms who was going to audition for Benny Goodman’s band. He played late in the night and when everyone woke up, he was dead from a heart attack.”
Then her voice grew quiet. “When somebody’s there he plays his trumpet. At first it’s so quiet that you ignore it, then it gets louder and louder until it’s deafening.”
I rolled my eyes. Poor woman, she actually believed this stuff. Ghosts weren’t real. Some people tried to convince me otherwise; in fact my best friend, Natalie, was fanatical with ghosts. I knew they weren’t real though.
I glanced at the woman again. She looked at me her dark brown eyes seeming to grab me. No matter what I did I couldn’t break her glare.
“Believe me,” she said slowly, “you do not want to sleep there. I can see that you don’t believe me. I didn’t believe in ghosts either until I slept in that room.”
“This is ridiculous,” Dad murmured.
I didn’t want to seem rude so I mumbled something about wanting to play my clarinet. “Maybe we can do a duet,” I said brightly.
“All right, I’ll let you sleep there,” she said her eyes blazing. “But don’t blame me when you come out screaming.” She started doing business with Dad.
Mom went towards me. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.
“How many times do I have to tell you, I do not believe in ghosts.” I ignored her, walked over to the piano, and started playing a jazzy rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
The clerk suddenly looked up and her face paled and fear shown in her eyes. When she saw me playing she relaxed. I had to wonder, what exactly was she hiding? Did she tell me everything or was she hiding something? I stopped playing suddenly, my fingers felt as tangled as my mind was. Maybe ghosts could be true.
No! They couldn’t. I glared at my hands. How could I even think that was true? I started to play more angrily.
Then I started to calm down. If there was one I wouldn’t run and I would try to get rid of it. Natalie had given me plenty of tips I could use. If there was a ghost of course, which there probably wasn’t.
That night I practiced sixteenth notes on my clarinet. It’s really tough especially when your tongue aches from tonguing your reed. I saw no ghosts. Finally I put my clarinet away and went to bed.
At first I was nearly asleep when I heard it, the soft melody of a trumpet. It was playing a blues song. Its tone was haunting and I sat up in bed mesmerized by the sound and the emotions it stirred up. I would die just to play like that.
The sound grew louder and it switched to blues to big band music. He was playing the trumpet solo from “Sing, Sing, Sing (with a swing).”
I would have loved to just sit there and listen to it all night, but I forced myself to get up. I had to find the source of the sound. I flicked the light switch on. It stayed dark.
Now I was starting to panic. I looked outside, no streetlights. That probably meant the whole city’s lights were off probably by the blizzard. How would I find the mysterious trumpet player?
Suddenly I remembered my Christmas present I had gotten, a light for my music stand. I rushed to my bag and fished out the light. I turned it on and with its small glow I looked around the room. Nothing. Then I looked outside. Still nothing.
I went back inside my room, switched off the light, and sat on my bed listening to the eerie sounds of a trumpet. I was probably just overreacting. I had heard of the story and now my brain was running wild with it. Yeah, that had to be it. Ghosts weren’t real. Right?
The trumpet playing was getting louder now. I closed my eyes and covered my eyes. “If I find the person whose doing this I’m going to kill them!” I yelled. My words melted with the playing.
The trumpet stopped suddenly. I opened my eyes and looked up. A man, about in his fifties, was drinking a glass of water. He was glowing slightly and his skin was a brilliant white. He was wearing a tuxedo and had a shiny trumpet in his left hand.
Oh no, ghosts were real.
I stared at him. I was shaking so hard but I wasn’t about to run away. Now I had to get rid of him. “Remember!” my brain screamed at me. Remember what? “Remember the tips Natalie gave you!” Oh yeah, that, of course.
My mouth felt dry as I said, “What do you want?” He ignored me.
“Go away, you’re dead!” I yelled. He either didn’t hear me or ignored me because he started playing.
I closed my eyes tightly and held my head in my hands trying to block out the blaring music. OK, maybe ghosts were real. But that didn’t mean I had to be afraid of it, right? I mean we were both musicians, why should he scare me? I tried to rub the goose bumps off my arms but to no avail.
OK, I admitted to myself, maybe I was a teeny weeny bit scared, but then again who wouldn’t be having a dead dude practice his trumpet in your room? I wouldn’t run away though, I wasn’t going to let that hotel lady laugh at me. Nah, I would find out a way to get of this dude. But how?
My friend Natalie told me that the way to get rid of a ghost was to give it what it wanted. How could I give it what it wanted if it couldn’t or wouldn’t listen to me?
Suddenly an idea hit me. What if music was the only way to get rid of him? After all, music was the language of the world.
I rummaged through my bag and grabbed my clarinet case. I opened and put together it, first the mouthpiece on the barrel then the upper section to the lower section and then finally I shoved the bell on. I searched my case for a reed, finally found one and put it on the clarinet. I put my mouth on it and blew.
Suddenly the trumpet player stopped and looked at me. I started playing “The Star Spangled Banner.” He joined me eagerly and even put a few jazzy touches in. We started playing a whole bunch of songs together, my mellow tone matching his blare perfectly.
Finally I stopped and looked at him. He smiled down at me and gestured his trumpet like, “Wanna play more?”
I shook my head and mouthed, “You’re dead.” He cocked his head curiously and looked down at his trumpet.
Suddenly my door opened and in came Mom in her pink nightgown. She didn’t look too happy. “What in the world is happening?” she yelled. “I thought we told you you’re not supposed to play when it’s one o’clock in the morning!”
The glow was still there so I gestured back. “I was playing with him,” I whispered. Mom didn’t look amused.
“Save the batteries of your light and put away your clarinet.” She went away murmuring something about why she even bothered to pay for my music lessons.
I looked back. My light was turned on although I was sure I didn’t turn on again and the ghost was gone. I slowly put away my clarinet and lied down in bed. I closed my eyes and in the distance I was sure I heard a trumpet playing the last few notes for a sad clarinet song, “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I murmured and fell asleep.
Wrote this when I was thirteen. It remains one of my favorite stories. I am such a band geek!
. For some unknown reasons I always find that a story with musicians strangely appealing. There's nothing wrong with band, really.
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