The piano played at 7pm — but nobody was touching the keys
THE following account is by a girl I met at a clinic in Shah Alam – let’s call her Aina. She was doing her housemanship and this is her story.
We were six medical students. We had no money, too many textbooks and a landlord in Kampung Baru who said: “This house cheap rent because owner died inside. But don’t worry, she was a nice lady.”
And that’s how every Malaysian ghost story starts. Cheap rent. The house was one of those old Kampung Baru bungalows that KL forgot to demolish. It had a wide verandah, high ceilings and dry, dusty parquet flooring that creaked even when you held your breath. And in the living room, under a window that never quite closed, was a piano.
Not a fancy grand piano, but an upright ebony Yamaha with yellowed keys like old teeth and horizontally covered with a faded batik cloth. On top of it, one framed photo. A middle-aged woman with permed hair and a serious face. The kind of makcik (aunty) who would scold you for not eating your vegetables.
“Don’t play the piano,” the landlord said on day one.
“It’s rosak (broken). And don’t remove the cloth or Makcik Tan would get angry.”
We didn’t. We were too busy trying not to fail Anatomy. The piano became a table for empty Domino’s Pizza boxes.
The first weird thing happened on a Thursday. We were all downstairs, eating. My housemate Lina pointed at the photo frame.
“Eh, tengok (look).”
A thin wisp, like cigarette smoke, was curling just above the frame. Slow, white, disappearing into the ceiling. No one was smoking. No incense. The windows were shut because of the haze. The air-conditioning was off because we were trying to save money. We stared at it for maybe five seconds. Then it was gone.
“House too dusty lah,” said Sara, our most scientific housemate who didn’t believe in ghosts but was a staunch believer in essential oils. We laughed and went back to eating. But none of us dusted the photo after that.
A few days later, I was upstairs alone. It was sometime after 7pm and I had just finished Maghrib prayers. I was reading Robbins Pathology and questioning my life choices. The house was quiet. Everyone else was at the library. Then, downstairs, the piano played. Not a song or a creepy horror movie chord. Just scales.
Do…re…mi…fa…sol…la…ti…do. Slow, deliberate and patiently – like a teacher.
Then again, and a pause, as if waiting for another hand to follow. My blood didn’t rush. It went cold in a very specific Malaysian way. You know that feeling when you hear a familiar ringtone at a pasar malam? That was it.
I told myself: “Okay, Sara is back early and trying to prank me.” I shouted, “Sara! Not funny lah!” No answer. The scales continued. I went downstairs. Each wooden step felt like it took an hour. The living room was empty. The batik cloth was still on the piano. The lid was closed.
And the house smelled faintly of powder. Like an old lady’s powder case.
I lifted the cloth with two fingers, like it might bite me. The keys were still. Dusty. No fingerprints.
That night, I told my housemates. We did what all medical students do – we went to the neighbour to take history. The neighbour was a makcik who had lived there 40 years and knew everything, including our grade point average. We asked about Makcik Tan.
“Oh, Cikgu Tan. Piano teacher. Very garang (strict) but with a good heart. Stayed here 30 years alone. Her daughter died when she was eight. Leukaemia, I think. She taught that girl piano every evening, 7pm sharp. After her daughter died, she still played every evening, 7pm. Same scales. For 20 years. Until she died last year in her living room,” she said.
She looked at our house.
“She probably thinks you are her new students.”
That night, none of us could sleep. Not because we were scared, but because we felt rude, like we intruded her space. We had been using her life’s love as a table for empty pizza boxes.
The next evening we did something stupid. We cleaned the piano. We removed the boxes, wiped the dust, folded the batik cloth nicely. Sara, who actually knew how to play, opened the lid. It was 7.02pm. We waited, but nothing happened. We felt a little silly.
“See – psychological,” Sara said.
Then, from the corner of our eyes, that same wisp of smoke curled again near the photo. And for a split second, we all swear we heard it – not from the piano, but from the air itself. A small, child’s voice trying to follow: “Do… re… mi…”
We never heard the piano play scales again after that. Maybe because we acknowledged it or maybe because Cikgu Tan finally thought we passed her test.
We lived there for two more years. We never fixed the piano, it was still out of tune. But before every final exam, we would leave a small glass of water on top of it. Old Chinese and Malay superstition – for the thirsty spirits. Every morning after, the glass would be half empty and the photo frame would be less dusty.
We moved out after housemanship posting. The last day, as we were ?carrying out our boxes, I could have sworn I heard it again. Faint. From upstairs this time. “Do…re…mi…fa…”
But this time, there was a second set of keys, smaller, clumsier, trying to keep up.
I was the last to leave. I looked at the piano and being a bit emotional, and a tad bodoh (stupid), I said out loud: “Thank you, Cikgu Tan.”
Nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened. Ghosts have better things to do than layan (entertain) my drama. Then I saw it. On the dusty piano keys, there were two small handprints. Tiny ones. Not mine. And next to them, an adult pair, as if Cikgu Tan was guiding them.
I stepped outside. On my way to the car, I swear I could smell that old lady’s powder again. I laughed all the way to the door, then cried a little at the traffic light on Jalan Raja Muda. I felt funny and sad, like most Malaysian goodbyes. Some ghosts don’t haunt houses. They don’t want to be feared, either. They just want to keep living in the spaces they loved and in this case, keep teaching the students they left behind.
After the story ended, I asked Aina: “Did you wipe off the handprints?”
She laughed.
“No lah, Kak. I left them there. For the next batch. And for Cikgu Tan. Some people think ghosts haunt houses because they have unfinished business. I think Cikgu Tan stayed because teaching WAS her unfinished business.”
I pondered her words. I already had goosebumps – but not the scary kind.
It was the kind you get when you realise love can be so stubborn it forgets to die, and some lessons are so full of love, even death cannot part them from us.
