flies open and slams down loud on the boards up there. The noise echoes, a waft of ancient dust fills the air. Stillness.
She has only a small flashlight from her keychain, the kind for emergencies lasting five minutes or less. Standing atop the jiggly ladder she makes out the sloping eaves that span the dusty space. A small window at the end admits shadows from a distant streetlight, a branch moving with the wind.
Looking at the attic window she becomes aware that the air in the confined space is very cold. A soft skritch-skritch close behind. Startled, she whirls around to see and her motion kicks the ladder out. She drops through the hole, manages to catch the rim, dangles, breath coming fast. Studies the fallen ladder to make sure she doesn’t hit it. Drops safely down, puts the ladder back up. Her car keys still up there. She’s ready to climb up when she notices the silence. The usual sounds of an old house on a winter night no longer here. The steady purring of the refrigerator, drip of kitchen faucet, scuttlings of animals outside, wind moving around the house, all are still. She intends to retrieve her keychain and close the trapdoor but the dark rectangle above has a malicious cast. Her hand draws back on its own.
S he returns to her room and shuts the door, closes and locks the window. Everything is as it was, except for a stillness that lies over the house as though a heavy blanket settled down. Drum of blood in her ears, she finds herself looking at the door, stares at it hard as though she waits for it to open. Her fingers tremble.
Tharcia reaches out gingerly, pulls the door open a crack. The hallway is completely still. Sticks her head out, looks both ways, sees dimly a hump-shouldered outline at the hall closet. Plunges for the stairs in a rush down and out to her car gets in slams door locks it fast. She peers out the windows, the night so dark like syrup it pulls at her head trying to see. She’s cold, just the T-shirt and jeans, running shoes with no socks. Something tells her don’t go inside . Knows it’s irrational, knows she’s acting flat-out loony but can’t overcome it. She bites her lip, hating this. It is unlike her to panic.
S he pushes a button on the CD player and it starts, the last exercises of her lesson on learning to speak French. She’s heard it already. Inserts another CD from the box by feel. Strange sounds come from the speakers. It’s almost comical, but between the careful English phrases of the presenter are practice sessions of a language that is at times flowing, at times guttural. She has no idea what she is saying as she follows the exercises, but it passes the time. She is not going back in that house.
An hour later s he is hunched tight against the cold and repeating nonsense phrases from the language CD when lights sweep up behind and Clay's coupe pulls to a stop. The second he closes the door she is out and running, calling Clay Clay Clay.
“What’s up? You ok?”
Wind shakes the treetops. “Clay I got freaked. It was so weird. Jeez.”
“What happened, was someone here?”
“No, not that. I was in my room doing stuff. I heard sounds in the attic. The ladder fell. Then everything seemed way strange.”
Clay looks at her in the porch light. The black T-shirt clings to her breasts. “Let’s go in, you’re cold.”
Upstairs h e climbs the ladder with his bright torch and looks in the attic, sees nothing. Standing below him a wash of frigid air falls on Tharcia’s face. Clay comes down.
“Now you.”
“Me? Oh no.” Tharcia backs away.
Clay grins. “It’s fine. You freaked yourself. Just go up, look. I’ll be here.”
A t the top of the ladder, she casts the beam into dark corners of the attic. His hand warm on bare ankle. “What do you see?”
“Boards. The window.” She finds her keychain in the dust, comes down. Clay closes the trapdoor tight, takes the ladder out onto the porch, starts water for tea. She's wrapped in a blanket,
She has only a small flashlight from her keychain, the kind for emergencies lasting five minutes or less. Standing atop the jiggly ladder she makes out the sloping eaves that span the dusty space. A small window at the end admits shadows from a distant streetlight, a branch moving with the wind.
Looking at the attic window she becomes aware that the air in the confined space is very cold. A soft skritch-skritch close behind. Startled, she whirls around to see and her motion kicks the ladder out. She drops through the hole, manages to catch the rim, dangles, breath coming fast. Studies the fallen ladder to make sure she doesn’t hit it. Drops safely down, puts the ladder back up. Her car keys still up there. She’s ready to climb up when she notices the silence. The usual sounds of an old house on a winter night no longer here. The steady purring of the refrigerator, drip of kitchen faucet, scuttlings of animals outside, wind moving around the house, all are still. She intends to retrieve her keychain and close the trapdoor but the dark rectangle above has a malicious cast. Her hand draws back on its own.
S he returns to her room and shuts the door, closes and locks the window. Everything is as it was, except for a stillness that lies over the house as though a heavy blanket settled down. Drum of blood in her ears, she finds herself looking at the door, stares at it hard as though she waits for it to open. Her fingers tremble.
Tharcia reaches out gingerly, pulls the door open a crack. The hallway is completely still. Sticks her head out, looks both ways, sees dimly a hump-shouldered outline at the hall closet. Plunges for the stairs in a rush down and out to her car gets in slams door locks it fast. She peers out the windows, the night so dark like syrup it pulls at her head trying to see. She’s cold, just the T-shirt and jeans, running shoes with no socks. Something tells her don’t go inside . Knows it’s irrational, knows she’s acting flat-out loony but can’t overcome it. She bites her lip, hating this. It is unlike her to panic.
S he pushes a button on the CD player and it starts, the last exercises of her lesson on learning to speak French. She’s heard it already. Inserts another CD from the box by feel. Strange sounds come from the speakers. It’s almost comical, but between the careful English phrases of the presenter are practice sessions of a language that is at times flowing, at times guttural. She has no idea what she is saying as she follows the exercises, but it passes the time. She is not going back in that house.
An hour later s he is hunched tight against the cold and repeating nonsense phrases from the language CD when lights sweep up behind and Clay's coupe pulls to a stop. The second he closes the door she is out and running, calling Clay Clay Clay.
“What’s up? You ok?”
Wind shakes the treetops. “Clay I got freaked. It was so weird. Jeez.”
“What happened, was someone here?”
“No, not that. I was in my room doing stuff. I heard sounds in the attic. The ladder fell. Then everything seemed way strange.”
Clay looks at her in the porch light. The black T-shirt clings to her breasts. “Let’s go in, you’re cold.”
Upstairs h e climbs the ladder with his bright torch and looks in the attic, sees nothing. Standing below him a wash of frigid air falls on Tharcia’s face. Clay comes down.
“Now you.”
“Me? Oh no.” Tharcia backs away.
Clay grins. “It’s fine. You freaked yourself. Just go up, look. I’ll be here.”
A t the top of the ladder, she casts the beam into dark corners of the attic. His hand warm on bare ankle. “What do you see?”
“Boards. The window.” She finds her keychain in the dust, comes down. Clay closes the trapdoor tight, takes the ladder out onto the porch, starts water for tea. She's wrapped in a blanket,
Similar Books
