Lost Girls (Book One in the Academy Series)

Haunting

The cello is an escape.

For hours, there is only the instrument and the steady click of my timekeeper. I keep setting it faster. I move past 90 beats per minute, then 100. I am a sprinter in a marathon.

Darkness falls.

When I stop playing, there's a faint echo. Returning my instrument to its home, I hear the sound again. It's a cello. I put the case beneath the shelf and turn off the light.

I'm in an insulated room in an insulated building. It should be as silent as outer space. But now, as I listen in the dark, I hear the cello again.

I exit. Shadows decorate the hallway like antique wallpaper. Unassigned practice rooms reveal their emptiness through half- open doors. When I arrived, they were all in use. After locking up my own space, I head down the corridor. My boots smack the linoleum.

I refuse the elevator. It's too easy to see it failing, to picture being trapped all night. I reach the stairwell and yank the door open.

Somewhere, a cello cries.

I descend.

Huge windows scatter starlight but the corners remain dark. I look for a switch, some way of getting the overheads to come on but I'm unsuccessful. I move faster and worry about falling.

It's three stories to ground level. Long before I reach it, I recognize the melody.

"Ave Maria" mocks me.

It builds as I step into the first-floor hallway. The lights are off here as well.Unwillingly, I picture my father. He's playing, teaching me his instrument. Then I see the grim policemen on our porch at 3 a.m.

The stairwell stands between the exit and rehearsal hall. Its doors are closed.

I should just turn and go. Something deep inside flashes a warning. I jog to the hall. At the double doors, I know the cellist is just inside. My head attempts to keep time, but the music is painfully off beat.

I've been to all sorts of live shows. I've danced beside the speakers at rock concerts and raves. This cello is louder than any instrument I've ever heard.

Sweat slick hands leave behind palm print sketches when I yank open a door.

It's silent.

I head down the aisle. There's no one in the audience, but three people sit on the stage, all of them focused on a long sheet of paper. The boy from earlier looks up and pushes lank black hair out of his face. He offers a casual grin. I notice how blue his eyes are and suddenly get Darlene's attraction. "Did you need this space?"

His voice hasn't reached puberty and my own is equally high- pitched and wavering. "Were any of you playing a cello?"

The other two seem to think the question insulting, and the boy replies, "No way. We're all Arts."

HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OR SEEN A GHOST?