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  There were tiny, round windows at both ends. But they were covered with dust and didn’t let in much light.

  “It’s empty,” I muttered, very disappointed.

  “We can store a lot of junk up here,” Dad said, looking around.

  “Hey — what’s that?” I spotted something against the far wall and began walking quickly toward it. The floorboards squeaked and creaked under my sneakers.

  I saw a gray, quilted cover over something large. Maybe it’s some kind of treasure chest, I thought.

  No one ever accused me of not having a good imagination.

  Dad was right behind me as I grabbed the heavy cover with both hands and pulled it away.

  And stared at a shiny black piano.

  “Wow,” Dad murmured, scratching his bald spot, staring at the piano with surprise. “Wow. Wow. Why did they leave this behind?”

  I shrugged. “It looks like new,” I said. I hit some keys with my pointer finger. “Sounds good.”

  Dad hit some keys, too. “It’s a really good piano,” he said, rubbing his hand lightly over the keyboard. “I wonder what it’s doing hidden up here in the attic like this….”

  “It’s a mystery,” I agreed.

  I had no idea how big a mystery it really was.

  * * *

  I couldn’t get to sleep that night. I mean, there was no way.

  I was in my good old bed from our old house. But it was facing the wrong direction. And it was against a different wall. And the light from the neighbor’s back porch was shining through the window. The window rattled from the wind. And all these creepy shadows were moving back and forth across the ceiling.

  I’m never going to be able to sleep in this new room, I realized.

  It’s too different. Too creepy. Too big.

  I’m going to be awake for the rest of my life!

  I just lay there, eyes wide open, staring up at the weird shadows.

  I had just started to relax and drift off to sleep when I heard the music.

  Piano music.

  At first, I thought it was coming from outside. But I quickly realized it was coming from up above me. From the attic!

  I sat straight up and listened. Yes. Some kind of classical music. Right over my head.

  I kicked off the covers and lowered my feet to the floor.

  Who could be up in the attic playing the piano in the middle of the night? I wondered. It couldn’t be Dad. He can’t play a note. And the only thing Mom can play is “Chopsticks,” and not very well.

  Maybe it’s Bonkers, I told myself.

  I stood up and listened. The music continued. Very softly. But I could hear it clearly. Every note.

  I started to make my way to the door and stubbed my toe against a carton that hadn’t been unpacked. “Ow!” I cried out, grabbing my foot and hopping around until the pain faded.

  Mom and Dad couldn’t hear me, I knew. Their bedroom was downstairs.

  I held my breath and listened. I could still hear the piano music above my head.

  Walking slowly, carefully, I stepped out of my room and into the hallway. The floorboards creaked under my bare feet. The floor was cold.

  I pulled open the attic door and leaned into the darkness.

  The music floated down. It was sad music, very slow, very soft.

  “Who — who’s up there?” I stammered.

  R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten School, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at www.RLStine.com.

  Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.

  Copyright © 1994 by Scholastic Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, GOOSEBUMPS, GOOSEBUMPS HORRORLAND, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First edition, July 1994

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-91040-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.