Candle in the Attic Window

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  I flicked the light switch in what I supposed was the kitchen, but found myself instead in my mother’s sitting room. That meant that I had turned right instead of left, so I reversed direction and crossed through the spacious foyer into what should have been the kitchen. But somehow, I ended up in the greenhouse and the door that would have allowed me to go back inside was secured. Clad in only a bathrobe and slippers, I was compelled to suffer the ignominy of rousing Jonas from his bed in the guest cottage. Jonas retrieved his key without so much as a reproachful look.

  Wellstone stock, already anemic, plunged even further. I took a disastrous personal loss. To add insult to injury, the Board had clearly lost confidence in me. My father’s admonition never to reveal a wound, however painful, prevented me from resigning.

  Three nights later, I woke from a sound sleep in an unfamiliar room. It was arranged roughly in the same fashion as my bed chamber, but it was much larger and the furniture cruder. The closets were bare and the only clothing I could find consisted of a flannel shirt, a pair of well-worn jeans, and some inexpensive loafers. I stepped outside the door with considerable trepidation, convinced that I had been drugged and kidnapped, but to my consternation, I found myself completely alone. My explorations were similarly disquieting. Many of the rooms bore a strong resemblance to those with which I was familiar, as did many of the furnishings, the books on the library shelves, the oriental rugs, the vivid tapestries. But they were arranged in unexpected combinations within the rooms and, even more unsettling, the rooms themselves had apparently been shuffled, so that the greenhouse was now appended to the bathroom and the kitchen opened off the library rather than the foyer.

  The foyer itself bore a strong resemblance to my own, with one exception. There was no front door, just an unbroken wall where it had stood.

  I soon discovered that all other means of egress were similarly missing. Exhausted, nerves on edge, I returned to the second floor, where the library had been located and where I kept the liquor cabinet. To my utter amazement, the library was no longer there. I was quite certain that it had opened off the hall directly opposite the master bedroom, at least in this version of the house, but when I stepped through the door this time, I found myself in the pantry.

  The library, as it happened, was back on the first floor. I tracked it down eventually, found the liquor cabinet and drank myself into oblivion.

  There’s little else of these past ten days that I can recall clearly. There was food in the kitchen but no electricity, so I was reduced to eating raw vegetables and canned tuna. Lacking power, I could make no use of any of the appliances and the telephones are all missing. Only the lights function normally, although I have noticed that if I leave them on when I leave a room, they have been extinguished when I return.

  It finally occurred to me that I might break a window and escape in that fashion. I was thwarted in this, as well, because as soon as the thought entered my head, steps were taken – I have no idea by what agency – to prevent any such deliverance. All of the external windows are now shuttered and I no longer have access to the greenhouse.

  I am writing this at the kitchen table. The mess I left behind has been cleared away and the cupboards have been restocked, but I have little appetite. I am clearly imprisoned, but I have no idea what crime it is that I have committed.

  •

  Another day has passed, or so I believe. Although there seems no point to further exploration, I am restless and have carried this notebook through a succession of rooms. I dare not leave it behind because I might not find it again. It is the only unchanging thing in my environment, or more properly, it is the only item whose changes I control.

  A short while ago, I happened upon the room with the red door again. This time, I was able to force it open and enter. At first, I was puzzled, because it was clearly a child’s room – a nursery, in fact – and there was no such place in my house. It was only as I was about to leave that I saw a familiar stuffed animal propped against a rocking horse and it was like a key that opened a lock. Memories flooded over me and I slowly turned, re-examining everything with a sense of profound wonder

  It was my own nursery, the furnishings long since cleared away at my father’s insistence. The shock was so intense that I finally left, consumed by memories, and when I recollected myself, I was in one of the guest rooms. Subsequent efforts to find the red door again have so far proven unsuccessful.

  I have a new anxiety today, one which alternately alarms me and gives me hope. I have heard sounds from elsewhere in the house, purposeful sounds, some of which I think might be human voices. At first, I shied away, but once it was clear that I was in no imminent danger, I discovered that my curiosity and need for human company was stronger than my fear. I have since attempted to find my unseen companions, but no matter how promptly I respond, I have yet to see any physical evidence that I am no longer alone.

  Later. Still no success, but during my last visit to the kitchen, which was at the time attached to the guest bathroom, I found the remains of a meal, a meal which I had not eaten.

  Later still. I have torn several pages from this notebook and written messages, which I have then placed in prominent places, suggesting that we congregate in the foyer. In at least two instances, those messages have been removed, but I have been waiting on the staircase now for what must be at least several hours. Twice, I have heard the sounds of movement, but no one has appeared. I am tired and discouraged, but will try again tomorrow.

  •

  I grow to understand my situation even less with each passing day. I woke this morning with some enthusiasm, convinced that the enigma in which I am trapped has a solution, if only I have the wits to find it. But just when I think I am beginning to understand the rules, they change.

  I found the kitchen clean and orderly and was making myself a sandwich for breakfast, Deviled Ham smeared on a hard roll, when I was startled by an ambiguous sound from near at hand. Before I had time to investigate, something burst in through the open doorway, ran past me, and exited into what should have been the pantry, but probably was not, all before I could react in any useful fashion. I didn’t get a good look at it, but it had four legs and fur.

  Breakfast forgotten, I spent what must have been hours searching. There were hints of its presence – a clatter of tiny footsteps from over my head, a brief series of bumps and once a crash, as if something glass had been overturned and shattered, but I never caught sight of it again. By nightfall, or what I judged to be nightfall, I had abandoned the hunt and I sit at present in the library, dispirited.

  •

  I must remember to confine my sleeping to a bed. This morning, I woke in a chair with a stiff neck and a back ache. My mood was somber as I prepared for the usual morning search for the kitchen. It was nowhere on the ground floor, so I climbed the staircase and had barely reached the landing when a commotion broke out below me. I turned and leaned over the rail, just in time to see my four-footed visitor, which appeared to be a small doe, bolt across the carpet from left to right. The sight of it was still registering when a second figure burst upon the scene, a human figure this time, although an ungainly looking creature. It ran hunched forward; it wore some rough, colourless fabric wrapped around its loins and it carried a crudely fashioned spear!

  I must have called out because it paused suddenly, glanced up in my direction, and then hurried on in pursuit of its quarry. I should have followed. I would have, except that something about the creature’s face struck me as oddly familiar. And in any case, I doubt very much that I could have caught up before the shifting realities of the house shunted it to some new location.

  It was a considerable while later, while passing through my mother’s sewing room, that I happened to glance at the wedding photos she had arranged in an elaborate triptych on one wall. The face of the savage hunter was that of my father.

  My predicament grows less comprehensible with each passing hour.

  •

  I have
not written here for the past three days, or for my last three periods of wakefulness, however long that might be. This is not because nothing of note has happened, but rather because, paradoxically, so much has.

  A low murmuring roused me from sleep, an almost subliminal sound which drew me out of my room and into the hall, where the disturbance resembled human speech more clearly. Barefoot and bare-chested, I walked slowly to the landing and looked down into the foyer. It seemed larger than usual and was certainly more crowded. Three rough structures stood in one corner, a kind of hybrid, half-tent and half-hut. Two adults were crouched a few meters away, building what appeared to be a fire in the middle of the floor. At the far end, a much-smaller individual – a child – was attempting to climb the drapes.

  I suppose I should have descended immediately, but my sense of propriety overruled my enthusiasm. Father had always stressed the importance of first impressions, so I went back to my room to dress, a wasted effort as all of the clothes I had been wearing the previous day had mysteriously vanished and the closet and bureaus were empty. By the time this fact had registered, the foyer had been restored to its usual pristine state.

  The disappointment was not as great as it might have been. Although I had yet to make contact with my housemates, there had been a clear progression. Sooner or later, our worlds would intersect more determinedly. I was certain of it. But the remainder of that day passed uneventfully and I fell asleep, once more consumed by doubts and apprehensions.

  Something touched my cheek and I opened my eyes. A child, a female, stood at my bedside, a rather disheveled-looking waif with round, sad eyes and delicate features. She was quite pretty, but there was a furtive look about her and she recoiled when she saw that I was awake then bolted through the door.

  “No! Wait!” I called and followed, but it was probably just as well that I failed to find her, as I was now completely unclothed. I mended that by fashioning a towel into a kind of kilt then conducted another fruitless search of the house, calling out occasionally, trying to speak in a calm, reassuring tone. No one answered; no one appeared.

  I made several fruitless circuits of the house and, during my fifth visit to the library, I turned to the liquor cabinet, but instead of the beveled glass containers, I found two bulging, leatherlike pouches, both filled with liquid. The first appeared to be plain water, but the second, though bitter and sour, was clearly alcoholic and I drained more than half of it before setting it aside.

  On the small end table beside my chair was a lamp, an ashtray and a small cameo portrait of my mother. I sank down into the seat and stared at it in wonder, for her face, though altered by age, was discernibly the same as that of my young visitor.

  •

  I have no idea how much time has passed since my last entry. I have been too preoccupied to add to this history. No, that’s not entirely true. On several occasions, I have attempted to record what has been happening, but in every instance, I have been unable to do so. The ability to fashion words into these abstract symbols seems to have become as transient as everything else in my environment. That may be just as well, as there are only a few blank pages left.

  But at the moment, the old skill has returned, although it takes me much longer to form each word than it did in the past and when I glance back at what I have already written, it seems an incomprehensible jumble.

  It was a tedious process, but I have made contact with the tribe. There are six adults and four children, two of each sex. The three adult males vary in age from late adolescence to elderly; the three women are tiered similarly, although each is noticeably younger than her respective mate. The oldest couple has a son who is nearly grown; the middle pair has a son and daughter, both in their mid-teens, and the youngest has a daughter, the one who visited my bedside. They speak, but no language that I recognize; nor do they respond to mine. Some of their clothing has been fashioned from towels or draperies; the rest consists of animal skins. The women forage for food in the kitchen and pantry, the men hunt the occasional doe. I have seen no evidence of any other animal life, although berry-bearing vines have sprung up in the pantry.

  The males all bear my father’s face, altered only to reflect their apparent age. The females are variations of my mother. I cannot explain this. They are not close relatives; they are the same.

  Although they have a spoken language, it is nothing I can comprehend and they don’t understand my words any better than I do theirs. At first, they were wary. The women ran off when I approached; the men warned me off by brandishing their weapons and shouting. Eventually, I managed to win a measure of their trust. They will not share their food with me, but if I bring my own, I am allowed to sit by their fire and eat with them. There is considerably less furniture in the house now, and a permanent burn mark in the centre of the foyer, but they have not touched anything in my bedroom and none of them seems to have entered it since my first encounter with the child.

  Until today, I was merely tolerated, but my patience has finally borne fruit. The oldest of the three males approached and I stood before him, eyes respectfully downcast. He muttered another incomprehensible speech then thrust his spear forward, offering it to me. Tentatively, I accepted it, raising my eyes to try to determine what else was wanted.

  He nodded toward the cooking fire then rubbed his bare, protruding belly with slow, exaggerated motions. His meaning was self-evident. He wanted me to find food for the tribe. Instinctively, I knew that this was a test, that if I succeeded, I would have proven myself one of them. I smiled and nodded, indicating that I understood, then turned and left them.

  There is no apparent pattern to the appearance, or disappearance, of the does. Sometimes, I see several in one day, or perhaps the same one several times; sometimes, I see none at all. I prowled the upper floors at first, reasoning that the presence of the tribe below would scare them off. Room after room proved empty, emptier than ever before. I now wonder what will happen once all the flammable materials in the house have been exhausted. Will we be reduced to eating everything uncooked? Will the house grow cold when winter comes, if it hasn’t, already? I have no idea what the date might be.

  A familiar fear assails me. What happens if I fail this test? Will I have another opportunity to prove myself or will I be forever disenfranchised? As this possibility grows more prominent in my thoughts, I find my early confidence giving way to nearly paralytic anxiety. What if I cannot measure up to the tribe’s standards? What if I am not man enough?

  •

  It is much later now. I have failed. It would have been bitterly disappointing to have tried and fallen short; it is immeasurably more devastating to have faltered even before making the attempt.

  I had nearly despaired of finding my prey before fatigue forced me to sleep. A dozen or more visits to every room had been unproductive. Exhausted, I sank into one of the few remaining armchairs, in what used to be one of the guest bedrooms. I must have dozed off, because I woke with a start, having slipped partway down, banging my elbow painfully against the carved wooden arm.

  Eyes stared into mine from only a meter away. It was a doe, head raised from where she had been grazing on one of mother’s rugs. She watched me closely but without evident alarm. My spear was resting against the wall, near my right hand, and I reached for it very slowly, not wanting to frighten the animal off. She seemed oblivious to her danger and my heart raced with the prospect of making the kill, winning my admission into the tribe. I closed my fingers around the shaft and slowly raised it over one shoulder. My legs were stiff and sore, but I couldn’t strike while sitting, so I pushed up, ever so slowly, until I was fully erect, the spear poised for the strike.

  At the last moment, as the muscles in my arm tightened for the final blow, the doe raised its head and looked at me and there was something familiar and almost human about its face. In that moment, I hesitated and lowered my arm. The doe took one last bite of the carpet then wandered off, unconcerned. I never saw her again.

  The trib
e was no longer camped in the foyer. Even the burn mark was gone, although the missing furniture has not been restored. I don’t understand, but I know that I will never be one of them.

  •

  Later. I am more confused than ever. I found the nursery again, although this time, my childhood toys and furnishings were mixed with more recent items: the desk from my study, the mirror I brought back from Paris.

  I have gotten into the habit of avoiding my reflection in the bathroom mirrors, and the haggard and unshaven man who looked at me with panic in his eyes seemed like a stranger. But I paused this time and took stock of myself. True, my hair was long and my beard full, but neither was as disreputable as I had imagined. In fact, the longer I regarded my image, the more content it appeared. There was something familiar about the eyes and the expression, something that I finally recognized.

  There was a touch of the doe in my face, or a touch of my face in the doe. I don’t pretend to understand that, either, but I think I am beginning to comprehend what has happened to me.

  I glanced down into the foyer a few moments ago and something seemed out of place. It took a few seconds to register, but then I realized what it was. The front door was back. Stunned, I turned away, wondering what it meant, excited by its presence but worried, as well, worried about what it might mean, what might lurk beyond the door. Whatever it was would be the unknown; I was certain of that.

  Suppressing my anxiety, I descended, but by the time I arrived, the wall was back in place. I expected to feel shattered by the discovery, but that wasn’t the case. I know now that when I am ready to face what lies beyond, a world in which the rules aren’t known in advance, and in which I have to find my own way and decide for myself what paths are worth following and which are not, the door will be there and I will open it and walk through and never look back.