I played the very slowest piece I had, and I played softly at first; but I know I forgot, and I know I hadn't played two pieces before I was having the best time ever, and making all the noise I wanted to.
Then all of a sudden I had a funny feeling as if somebody somewhere was watching me; but I just couldn't turn around.

I stopped playing, though, at the end of that piece, and then I looked; but there wasn't anybody in sight.

But the wax cross was there, and the coffin plate, and that awful hair wreath; and suddenly I felt as if that room was just full of folks with great staring eyes.

I fairly shook with shivers then, but I managed to shut the piano and get over to the door where the light was.

Then, a minute later, out in the big silent hall, I crept on tiptoe toward the stairs.