Ropes in the Attic

by Edward Flora

  “Four, five, six…”

  The important thing was this town had consistency. Exactly the kind of consistency they needed in their lives. It would help ease Peter’s need to count strides or to re-write chapters over and over again.

  “Seven…eight…”

  Peter’s entire five-mile circuit had been completed rather quickly. It took him exactly forty-five minutes to make it back to his starting point in the driveway. That was an average of nine minutes per mile. At least that’s what his watch told him.

  ELEVEN

  Finally, back in his zone, Peter pulled up a chair to his computer desk. He peered out the double window as he did so. The lake appeared so calm. The sun had long since pierced through the morning mist and beat down on the water’s surface. If Peter looked long enough, he felt as if he’d enter a trance. He reached down for his freshly brewed black tea. Unsweetened. He preferred drinking tea over coffee while he worked. Coffee gave him too much energy to the point where he couldn’t sit and focus on one thing. Tea, on the other hand, gave him just enough energy to stay focused without the jitters.

  Peter took a sip before flipping open the laptop. He went to work, fingers quickly stamping the keys. There were so many ideas flowing out. His fingers almost couldn’t keep up as his brain spit them out. He paused to take another sip of tea when he felt the weird sensation of not owning these ideas. The ideas came and went so fast he was missing some of them before they disappeared forever. That had never been a problem before as Peter was always very attentive. He certainly never had any issues remembering even the smallest details. He knew this because it was even the smallest details that haunted him daily. He was used to his mind working in overdrive. He grabbed his notepad to reference his outline.

  “Okay here…but where is here?”

  He sat there, reaching up to caress his beard only to find smooth cheeks. Creature of habit if there ever was one. A clean-shaven face was just another thing to adjust to.

  “Weird,” Peter thought aloud. “I don’t remember drafting this.”

  He peered at the familiar scribble on the notepad. Surely the ideas on the page were his. He wrote them down. The ability to decipher this chicken scratch was exclusively his. However, he was unable to think back to jotting these ideas down.

  He went for another sip of tea, glancing out the window, trying to clear his mind and relax for a moment. It was becoming a little overwhelming. In situations like this, he learned to slow down and focus on breathing. Overthinking only made it worse. Dr. Urbridge had taught Peter simple breathing exercises to help keep him in the moment and not spiral into endless harmful ideas.

  The room darkened as Peter continued to focus on the lake and his breathing. The warm, beating sunlight had gone into hiding again behind a few looming clouds. His eyes narrowed, now focusing on not breaking his gaze with the lake. The sky had gone completely dark in a matter of seconds.

  The sky then opened up and an ocean of rain poured down. Heavy drops pounded the windows of his office. The lake, a source of tranquility a moment ago, now became a scene of chaos. The downpour gave the illusion the lake vibrated. Peter closed his eyes to focus on his breathing instead of the unfolding scene outside. His lungs calmly working in stark contrast to the hectic nature of the rain. The exercise was working.

  He thought about Dani. Across town and safely indoors teaching. He was thankful she was working inside rather than being out in these treacherous conditions. She likely shared that sentiment.

  A drop of water splashed on the desk.

  “Shit!” He stood up, grabbing his mug. The writing session was officially over.

  TWELVE

  Peter watched as Dani’s SUV drove away towards school. He slipped his headphones on and took off for his morning run. His mind fixated on the dripping water inside his office.

  Dani got home yesterday and didn’t see a bit of rain the entire day. In fact, she said it had been sunny all day. Brisk, but sunny. Her school was no more than a fifteen-minute drive away. Anything was possible but how had every rain cloud from the storm avoid being visible from the school?

  The pace of Peter’s jog began to sync up with the tempo of the music pumping in his ears. The music did its best to keep Peter’s mind focused on his run and not on the drip. It had always been one of his most efficient mood stabilizers. A means to clear his mind. Not today. The music became background noise to the questions that irritated him. How had nobody else seen the rain yesterday? His mind flashed back to the drip in the hospital room.

  “No, leave it alone,” Peter thought.

  The next song on his playlist kicked in and he pumped his arms in response, increasing his speed just slightly. He exhaled forcefully, noting his breath pushing out of his mouth, although it was not quite cold enough yet to be visible.

  Peter closed in on the two-and-a-half-mile mark, conveniently located at a roundabout in the road. Following this would lead him back in the direction of home, completing his five-mile circuit.

  He couldn’t afford to fixate on insignificant details such as the weather. Focus should be on building a life here with Dani. This routine worked wonders while they lived in Brooklyn. Surely it would yield similar results here.

  From time to time, ever since starting recovery, Peter’s mind had a habit of wandering during his runs. His thoughts surged with everything from current developments in his life to past regrets. Although his runs had turned into a version of a safe place for Peter, he was still susceptible to intrusive thoughts.

  The roundabout approached but instead of following it, Peter continued straight. This led directly into town. He broke his route in hopes of finding some inspiration. All too often, Peter would sit in front of his laptop feeling cooped up. The moment claustrophobia set in, productivity was out the window. The best way to counteract this was being outside.

  Still at jogging pace, he turned right onto Piermont’s Main Street.

  Shit! Can’t run here.

  Peter hit the brakes. It was hard for him to contain his curiosity, but he explored Main Street with a youthful energy. He found the coffee shop on the corner he’d been told about, owned by an old widower and his twenty-something son. They had moved to Piermont from California after his wife tragically passed away in a car accident. They wanted to get away from the fast-paced life of California, at least for a little while. The coffee shop looked like a quaint place to get your caffeine fix. Maybe sit for a minute with a book and escape.

  The son dedicated himself to his father’s business, graciously moving out to the East Coast to open the coffeeshop with his old man. He put aside his degree in civil engineering to explore other aspects of life. The small village on the west bank of the Hudson River offered just that. The desire to go back to the West Coast was still there. It had been for the last five years and his father knew it. He didn’t want to stay in Rockland County forever.

  Peter passed by a couple of restaurants and bars next. All owned by Piermont locals, sharing a piece of their lives with the community.

  A bookshop brooded right in the middle of the block, sandwiched between two grander, more modern buildings. Peter walked in, noticing right away the front of the store was vacant.

  “Anybody home?” he called out as he looked around inside.

  The shop was much different than what he was used to these days. He recalled larger stores resembling the modern design of the other two buildings that dwarfed this relic. They sold electronic tablets and boasted a Starbucks. Most of the time it felt like actual books were just an afterthought. They sat on shelves as display pieces while people stared at their phones and sipped on $9 lattes.

  This shop however, most likely had a single owner. Much like the other businesses on this street. The inside of the shop was, at most, thirty feet wide. Extremely narrow, since it was being crowded on either side. The walls stretched on for miles though. Books likely forgotten by this generation lined every shelf. The ceiling also seemed abnormally high. The building
was two stories tall with the second floor mostly open space. As a result, the bookshelves took advantage and ran straight to the second story ceiling.

  A narrow staircase in the middle of the room led up to a small landing which barely qualified as the second floor. More books lined one side, stacked neatly on each step. An old rocking chair which hadn’t rocked in years occupied the landing. A typewriter perched on top of a table scattered with books. It was identical to the typewriter back home. Several glass display cases on the landing sat locked. After having a closer look, Peter discovered the books inside looked like they were centuries old. He wondered how the shop owner acquired them. They seemed a better fit in a museum rather an abandoned store locked away.

  One case especially drew his attention. This one had no glass display to allow for viewing the inner contents. Whatever was inside must have been a collectible. Priceless even. He reached out to touch the locked case. The gritty, wooden door budged easily to the touch. If it wasn’t for the rusty padlock, the door may have just fallen off.

  However, the most charming feature of the shop, a rolling style ladder that reached from the floor all the way to the ceiling. It allowed access to books on the top shelves but they were stacked so dangerously high it seemed far too risky to venture that way. He would almost feel guilty to request the store clerk (if there was one) to fetch a book from that height.

  A grey carpet that had been collecting dust for a long time covered the floors. The indentations left behind by the ladder’s wheels told a story of a time when it had seen more traffic.

  On his way back down the stairs, a tired, yet welcoming voice greeted Peter.

  “Oh, hello there, young man. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Anything I can help you with?”

  A frail old man stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at Peter. His poor posture made him seem shorter. A grey and white polo shirt with a sad pocket on his left breast dangled off his frail body. Tucked away inside the pocket poked out a pair of reading glasses. The man had a full head of shocked-white hair, which matched the pencil-thin goatee on his face. A feeling of déjà vu swept over Peter.

  “That’s alright, I’m only looking around. My name’s Peter. My wife and I moved here this week from Brooklyn. I’m just getting acquainted with the area.”

  “That’s just wonderful. Welcome to town, Peter. You can call me Tony,” the man responded with a glint in his eye. “It isn’t often we get new residents. Most of the time people are packing up and leaving, with a few exceptions of course. What part of town are you coming from?” He grabbed a water bottle from behind the desk, insisting Peter take it. Peter, visibly parched from his run, took the bottle graciously.

  “We’re right between the edge of the Palisades parkway and Route 9,” Peter answered. “It’s actually the last house right before the road ends. Has a great view of the lake.”

  “Oh, very interesting,” Tony answered with some slight reservations in his voice. Giving Peter a concerning eye, he followed up with, “What made you choose that house?”

  “Well, we were told the house had been vacant for some time. About 15 years to be exact. We got a great deal on it as a result,” Peter announced with pride.

  “Did your real estate agent not tell you who used to live in that house? There’s a reason it has been vacant for so long.”

  “Not really, no. We weren’t given too many details about who used to live there. Just the important facts such as insurance policy, inspections, electrical and plumbing upgrades…You know, the real juicy details,” Peter responded with a slight, uneasy chuckle. Mostly towards his own joke, but curious as to why Tony would press something like the former occupants of his new home.

  “Well, your agent left out a few details I feel could have been worth mentioning.” He ran a finger over the dusty countertop. “For instance, the last occupants passed away. In fact, Leida…the wife, was a writer. Much like yourself. Shame really, they were lovely folk. She died in the house though. Unfortunately, of unnatural causes.” Tony’s voice grew more ominous. His boney hands trembled slightly but Peter was too wrapped up in the story to notice.

  “Oh,” said Peter, leaning in closer. “We knew the house had been vacant for a while, but we had no idea about whoever lived there. Also, how’d you know I was a writer?”

  “I just had a feeling about you,” Tony answered with a warm smile. “A good feeling, of course. Say, you didn’t find any of Leida’s writings, did you? I’m sure you noticed my private collection of antiques upstairs. If you find anything, I’m willing to pay you for it.”

  “Sorry, not really,” Peter replied. “Only thing I found was an old typewriter. It looks like the one you have upstairs. Just a few other odds and ends collecting dust. No writing has turned up though.”

  “Ah, well that’s alright,” said Tony.

  “I’ll keep an eye out though. It was great meeting you, Tony,” said Peter.

  “You as well.”

  THIRTEEN

  Peter was later than usual getting home from the office in Brooklyn. It was his first year after graduating college and he was already in the swing of things at the firm, poised to make junior partner in no time.

  Twilight colored the late October sky and the streetlamps burned bright. Peter’s leather shoes squeaked as he walked up the steps of the brownstone apartment on 9th street that he rented with Dani. They’d lived there for a little while but were planning on moving to a bigger place when their daughter was born.

  Peter put his hand in front of his face to smell his breath before opening the front door. There had been an office party and he had a couple of drinks. He promised Dani he’d quit drinking completely. However, in a social celebration at work, it was hard to resist temptation.

  “It was only a few,” he thought.

  You’re not even buzzed. It’s fine, she won’t notice.

  Once he confirmed his breath was passable, he opened the door. He found Dani standing idle in the middle of the living room.

  “Dani! What’s wrong?”

  He stood in the doorway, unable to move.

  Dani’s face remained frozen still. It was laced with a veil of blood. It dripped over her eyes, following the contours of her cheeks, down her chin and neck. However, there was no visible wound anywhere. She held her hands out in front of her, palms up, covered in blood as well. A pool of red formed a halo around her feet.

  His breath choked him. “Dani, what happened?”

  Still no answer.

  She stood motionless. Frozen in time as the blood continued its current course. She seemed to be unaffected by it if not for the shock. As if they were existing on separate timelines.

  Peter shook as he stretched a hand in her direction. As he drew closer the room stretched, pulling Dani further away. The walls of their apartment began to warp around them. The creaks of the hardwood floor dragging them apart, echoing everywhere.

  Peter tried to inch closer, fighting against the time-warped room. Dani’s eyes suddenly came alive. She locked onto Peter, as if to warn him not to come any closer.

  Anger and resentment filled her eyes. They pierced right through him.

  “She did it,” Dani screeched in a bizarre voice. It was not her own.

  Peter pushed against the force holding him back. “Who did what, sweetie?” His voice cracked as he tried to stay calm as not to startle Dani any further.

  “YOU KNOW WHO!” the distorted voice went on. It was unrecognizable and pierced Peter’s eardrums. “She’s already dead and it’s your fault!”

  “Who’s dead? I don’t understand.” Peter began to sob. However, he felt like he already knew the answer.

  Dani snickered. “Go look. Your favorite nurse. She’s upstairs right now suspended by the throat.”

  Peter strained forward. He had to do something to reach her. Sweat that stank of liquor drenched him. He began to stretch out his hand again, one last effort, when she let out a bloodcurdling scream…

  Pe
ter shot up in bed, next to Dani.

  Dani startled awake. “Peter?”

  He looked at her, then looked away, fighting back tears. Sweat soaked his top. The sheets and pillows, too.

  “I had a nightmare.” He choked out the words as he stood up from the bed, shaking, getting ready to rip the sheets from his side of the bed before Dani even had a chance to get up from her side.

  “It was about you…and the baby,” he continued. “We were back home. You were just standing there, covered in blood.”

  He threw the sheets onto the floor, then grabbed a dry set from the closet.