A short story:
Mother sat on her rumpled bed, doing a crossword puzzle. Such was her favorite mid-Sunday afternoon relaxation activity. In the middle of contemplating 66 down, Mother heard a noise. A musical noise. Someone was playing the piano. Not terribly well, but the tune was recognizable. Mother listened to a bar or two and finally the name of the song popped out of her mouth. "Martha My Dear" by the Beatles. She bobbed her head to the music, until it occurred to her that she was the only piano player in the family. Foot-tapping turned to spine tingling; peppy but flawed live music to ominous tinkle, each wrong note emphasizing the burgeoning terror. Who was playing?
The bed was now the only refuge from whatever was in the living room at the black instrument.
With a weak voice, mother squeaked, "Who is playing the piano?"
Yes it needs work.
In real life, the mother is, of course, not the only piano player in the family, but no one but I has touched the piano in many months. Seriously, who the heck was playing the piano? And whoever was playing was doing pretty darn well on a song that he or she has never played before, and was doing it without music. We don't even have the sheet music for "Martha My Dear." I was puzzled. Did we now have a piano-playing poltergeist?
Seriously, who was playing the piano?
Hayley is practicing for an upcoming talent show. She is determined to learn this song so she can play it in the program. The video only shows a few seconds of the song; Hayley has over a minute of it memorized. Wish her luck!