by C.G. Banks
*
Patsy stood stock-still in the hallway staring up at the attic door. The bumping had ceased up there but at the far edge of perceptibility she thought she could still hear the dragging. She’d managed to pull herself together only moments before from a weeping puddle on the kitchen floor, Terri’s name on her tongue. She was crazy all right, but if this was her world she’d goddamn well have to live in it. And it had been Terri’s voice. She knew it like her own skin.
There was just the fear to contend with and that had her puzzled. How in God’s name could she be afraid of her own daughter? Regardless of the circumstances, how could she be afraid?
But she still couldn’t bring herself to open the attic door. The image of the two other girls was trapped like a spider in her mind; the forms she’d seen on the path; every creaky noise and suspicious shadow she’d seen or thought she’d seen had coalesced to freeze her into immobility. And somewhere out there (up there, a malignant voice whispered) her daughter was waiting. Probably a lot more frightened than her chickenshit mother if the truth be known.
The thought sent a bolt of courage through her and she jerked forward, her eyes fixed on the tantalizing pull-string that hung down from the attic door. She reached up and pulled. And was blinded. A swirl of material filled the air, cascading into her eyes, burning, blotting out her vision. She stumbled backward and hit the wall, crumpled down to the floor, her hands adrift in whatever it was. She dared not open her eyes and fumbled back down the hall to the bathroom door. Lurched inside and blindly flung back the shower door. Stepped in fully clothed and turned the taps on high. By the time she’d cleaned whatever it was out of her eyes she was soaking wet. But then, very tenderly, she opened them and blinked slowly. Most of the stuff, whatever it was, was out but there was still a gritty sensation on the underside of her eyelids. She let the water run another few minutes and when the gritty sensation was finally gone she chanced a look down at the swirl of water but could see no evidence of whatever it had been. She turned off the taps. Opened the door. Stepped out to drip on the tiled floor and saw it. Attic insulation.
Still soaking wet she stepped though the door to the hallway and looked around. Insulation all right, everywhere. But this was not in rolls but shredded as if by a legion of rats. Little bits of glass twinkled in the light from the hallway fixture. There was an awful lot of it scattered about, and now she realized it had all been piled on top of the door so that when she pulled down…. Ghosts couldn’t do things like that, goddammit, but people could.
A new anger flared deep within her and she walked over to the half-drawn attic door. The folded ladder was still filled with the particles of insulation and she pulled it back slowly, fanning out the fluff with her free hand, shutting her eyes against the drift. The foot of the ladder clunked down on the carpet of insulation that filled the hallway. “Here I come you fuckers,” she whispered and started up.