The Little Hands
I’VE NEVER LIVED in a haunted house, but my mother did as a teen. Other houses on her street had strange things going on too. A few homes away from her lived a man and his family. One night, one of his daughters went to bed with a bad headache. The next day, she was dead—she’d passed away from an aneurysm. After the funeral, the family went away to get their minds off the tragedy, and the father asked my uncle—my mom’s brother— to check on their pets. My mom and dad (they were dating then) went with my uncle; my mother had heard there was a grand piano and she wanted to play it, and my dad was studying to be a veterinarian.
After entering the house, my uncle and my father headed to the basement to see the animals, and my mother went to the piano on the ground floor. She was playing it when she felt something brush her ankles. She thought a cat must have left the basement and walked past her. She kept playing, and she felt it again. She looked under the piano and saw nothing. When she started again, she felt hands clasp her legs and grab them tightly. She dashed to the basement door, called my uncle and father, and waited for them. When they all walked outside, my uncle could tell my mom was rattled and asked what was wrong. She told him what had happened, and he turned white. He told her the daughter who died used to play a game with her father. When he’d play the piano, she’d crawl underneath, grab his ankles, and push his feet up and down on the pedals.