Ropes in the Attic

by Edward Flora

  As Peter typed away with ideas swirling around in his head like a whirlwind, he sensed something a little off. A strange smell invaded his personal space. The smell was similar to the one he experienced months ago in the living room. An event he had all but put out of his head. He shook off the smell and decided to ignore it. He told himself it was only his mind playing tricks on him, just like he had months ago, convincing himself it wasn’t real. The smell wasn’t real. The girl wasn’t real. The only thing that was real was the laptop in front of him and the deadline he had set for himself. That was real. Dani was real. Their baby was real. Not this nonsense that served as only a distraction. He grunted in disdain and he continued to work.

  The odor, however, got worse as Peter typed. He paused for a moment, his focus diverted away from his laptop. He looked around the office quickly, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. The candle in the corner of his eye was no longer fresh. Some wax dripped from one side which melted away faster than the rest of the candle’s trunk. A pool of reddish-brown liquid formed at the base and instantly solidified.

  Peter stood up from the desk and calmly walked around his office. Stretching his legs would be a good idea to reset his focus. As he strolled about the room, he touched each of the boxes waiting to be built. A crib, a changing table, a rocker and an ottoman. He stopped where the mobile and music box had already been opened. A lamb and giraffe had already been set onto the mobile but still needed the music box and elephant to be a complete set. Peter scooped up the unfinished mobile and attached the music box to it. Rotating the tiny knob, he released it and let the lullaby play out. A soothing, melodic, yet mechanical tone played from the mobile. He set the piece down on the edge of the desk and pulled up his chair again to sit down.

  Ding di di ding de de ding ding. The lullaby rang out and Peter tried to absorb the clicking little notes with the scent of his candle. Instead he was met with the unpleasant reek. It had already overpowered his candle. Peter picked up his mug, which contained some unsweetened black tea and lifted it to his nose. Steam rose from the mug and hit his nostrils. Nothing unusual there. The mug had just been cleaned and the tea itself was fresh.

  Peter shrugged it off once again and resumed typing.

  The calming aroma of the black tea newly acquainted with his senses had him at ease.

  The relief, however, was only temporary. The tea’s aroma eventually wore off and was replaced by the heavy, moldy scent of something rotting.

  Peter stood up, slamming his fists down on the desk. The impact sent chaotic ripples surging through the tea. The mobile’s tune hiccupped Ding di de de din- and ceased playing. He let out a long breath. He couldn’t afford for his attention to be drawn away from his work like this. He reached into the desk, pulling out some meds in hopes of calming his nerves. He placed a capsule under his tongue and used a sip of tea to help it roll down his throat.

  Okay, think. There’s no time to fly off the handle over your wild imagination, Peter reasoned with himself. He thought about how he hadn’t told Dani about the incident in the woods or his vision in the living room. It would have been better to just get these annoyances off his chest. They were, after all, his imagination playing tricks on him. He wasn’t hiding things from her. At least not intentionally… he had their baby in mind.

  Peter took a breath and sat back down in his chair. “You’ll be fine.”

  What’s that smell? You’ll calm down in a moment. Breathe. But what’s that smell? Your mind is fucking with you again. It’s not real. That smell is real. Just relax, Peter. The smell is going to make you vomit. Just another minute and I’ll get right back to work. No, you need to find where it’s coming from instead. Just breathe. Doesn’t it taste horrible? I don’t know. Oh god, here comes the nausea. I should call Dani. But she can’t know about this. I need to find her. You need to throw up.

  Peter’s gag reflex took over and he nearly vomited. Nothing came up. Only the slight hint of stomach acid lingered in his throat. He covered his face with his hands and sat there to collect himself. A few, tense moments passed before he got to his feet, going in search for Dani.

  The rottenness in the air returned as Peter contemplated the possibilities of where Dani might be. It returned in full force, pounding his senses. He stood up again and stormed out of the room and down the stairs. He marched into the living room. The first place he encountered this wretched smell must be the source of it this time.

  Nothing.

  Into the kitchen…no luck. The garbage had been taken out, dishes washed. The kitchen checked out fine.

  “Where’s this coming from?” he muttered aloud, hoping someone would point out the answer to him. He knew it was a ridiculous request. The house was empty.

  He climbed the stairs back to his office. The further he climbed the more intense the smell. But where? It wasn’t the office. The bedroom was clean. It wasn’t the bathroom either. He just showered in there and everything was fine. He stood in the second-floor hallway looking up at the ceiling hatch where the answer lived.

  He pulled the wooden steps down and began to climb.

  The odor pummeled him exactly as the steps fell into place. It became so powerful Peter found it difficult to breath. The air hung heavy. The second floor felt like being inside an indoor pool. The kind found in a run-down interstate highway motel. Poor ventilation and way past the point of routine maintenance. The stench of mold feasting away at the sheet metal vents could be tasted with every breath. The smell became so rancid Peter nearly choked on the air.

  As he reached the top step, he pulled himself up, peering inside. In the middle of the room stood the source of the stench.

  Leida Nielsen stood idle in the center of the attic.

  Staring…Breathing…As if she were alive. Perhaps she was, along with the house.

  She had left Peter alone for the better part of two months. Peter knew the reason. Ever since he brought her key back into the house with the chest, she’d been manipulating him. Reaching for his mind as if for revenge. She was the cause of Peter seeing what was not there, or rather, what was once there. However, he thought he was rid of her. Things were too normal for too long but he had accepted it as a conclusion. A go-ahead to continue with his life as if there was no looming danger. So he let his guard down.

  Peter, once more, had no control over his body. Leida had pulled him into the attic again. This time, she stood there to meet her prey face-to-face. He stood in front of her, frozen, unable to make his next move. He stared deep into her eyes, not by choice. Her cold dead eyes stared back. They had been dead for a long time but without a soul for longer.

  Peter’s gaze made its way down. Holding Leida’s hand stood the little girl, Lauren Rivers. The post-mortem process had progressed further still since their last encounter. As if she was rotting away before his eyes. Her lesions were more widespread now. Spending a decade and a half drowning would do that.

  Peter couldn’t rip his gaze away. Tears rolled down his face as he gagged. Leida continued to stare him down but Lauren stood looking on vacantly. Her blank expression stamped by her empty eye sockets. Her eyes had been gouged out. Although 15 years earlier, the deed left a lasting impression. The gateways to her soul were reduced to an endless void. After what had been done to her, she would never be able to see again. Even in the afterlife. The gaping holes in her skull burned a more judgmental stare into Peter than Leida did.

  In Leida’s opposite hand she held a knife. The knife used to commit her heinous crime.

  The two apparitions remained motionless. Until Peter noticed the grip of Leida’s hand tighten around Lauren’s hand. The girl’s expression remained unchanged. Leida’s eyes finally shifted their focus directly at Peter, filled with rage. The room became a blur and suddenly, Peter fainted.

  When he awoke, he stood in a different room. It was the living room of the house but something was different about it. It felt bright. Alive even.

  An unfamiliar set of furniture occupied the space
the Shelly’s had made their own.

  A young man in his early thirties occupied an armchair in the corner. He had black, slicked-back hair and was clean shaven. A very well put together individual. He sat there with a proud demeanor about him.

  He relaxed in his chair and lit a cigar.

  Peter recognized this man. His hair, the white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled-up slightly after a long day, the black suspenders. The man from the woods…running from something.

  Peter was not stricken with panic but with intrigue. He stood quietly at the entrance of his living room where this strange man smoked his cigar, just watching.

  Leida walked in. The pieces were coming together. Peter stared into the past. She was not as he had seen her before. She was the way she looked in the picture—young and beautiful. She had an energy about her instead of despair. Yet he still sensed a bit of fear in her.

  Leida walked in juggling a blue binder filled to the brim with papers. She took her work and sat down at a typewriter opposite the man on the armchair. The same typewriter left behind from the house’s previous occupants.

  “Leida, dear,” the man spoke.

  She looked up from her work attentively yet in silence.

  “It was such a long day at work. Can you bring me a drink?”

  “Yes, Marshall. Anything for you, dear,” she replied as she stood from her work and approached the corner of the room towards a small liquor cabinet.

  Rude, Peter thought. Get your own drink. It’s right across the room.

  Leida poured her husband a scotch.

  Suddenly, he felt a pair of eyes lock onto him. “Why don’t you mind your own goddamned business?”

  Peter slowly turned his attention back towards Marshall. The cigar cocked between his fingers, he stared Peter down as if an intruder. Peter supposed he was an intruder. He hadn’t said anything aloud, however. Leida continued to fix the drink, unphased by the exchange.

  “Excuse me?” Peter replied, not meaning to sound confrontational but realizing it had come off that way.

  Marshall didn’t move from his chair. Not even a slight adjustment. He was comfortable. Peter was the one who was out of his element. Leida placed the scotch glass next to Marshall who did not break his stare with Peter.

  “You spineless little shit,” he shot at Peter as Leida returned to her typewriter. The sound of the heavy keys echoed throughout the entire house. An intense smell of mahogany also made its return and Peter remembered the candle still burning in his office, nearly down to a nub.

  Marshall chuckled, in an almost “I told you so” manner.

  “Peter Shelly…always finding an excuse for the things that don’t go your way. Always in need of a scapegoat. You’re not the victim. No, you’re no different than me. You selfish bastard.” Marshall let out another brief chuckle. “Hell, you’re no different from her either.” He pointed towards Leida who remained out of the conversation, attending to her typing. The keys continued to ring through the air.

  “You’re a goddamned MONSTER!” Marshall barked. “What are you going to do? KILL SOMEONE? Oh wait, you already have…”

  “THAT’S BULL—”

  “Bullshit?” Marshall cut-off Peter’s interjection. “You know I’m goddamn right. She’s too good for you. You dragged your wife to this place. For what? Your own selfish reasons. You couldn’t give a shit how much that woman does for you. Yet you still find excuses for when it all goes bad.”

  “What about you?” Peter shot back. “Can’t even get your own drinks?”

  Suddenly the keys of the typewriter stopped. Leida slipped out of the room.

  Marshall just smirked. “You can’t leave now.”

  “But Dani and I have an agreement, we…”

  “No,” Marshall stopped him. “The only reason you’ve come here was to have a new chance at a family. Now that the house has given you what you wanted, you’re just going to leave? Selfish.”

  As Marshall finished his statement Leida returned to the room with a chef’s knife. Peter watched as she jammed the 8-inch blade into her unfaithful husband’s skull. Blood spurted from his head as his lifeless body collapsed to the floor.

  Leida turned to Peter. “We’ve given you this one chance. You can’t leave now.”

  “Welcome home, Peter.” Marshall appeared standing in the doorway behind Peter. Grinning with a steady flow of blood pouring out of his head.

  The last embers of the mahogany candle in Peter’s office burned out as he awoke back in the attic once again. Leida and Lauren were no longer there. He was alone, left with the aftertaste of the rotting smell still lingering in the air. Everything inside his stomach made its way out of his system and onto the floor.

  He tripped over himself, trying to regain composure, stumbling down the steps of the attic. He ran a hand through his beard, his fingers coming away damp. He hadn’t eaten much today but whatever liquid he had consumed now resided there.

  He clumsily ran down the second-floor hallway, making the sharp turn to the next flight of stairs but missing the top step. He tumbled down, landing hard onto the first floor. He lay there for a moment writhing in pain. He grasped his ankle, angrier at himself more than anything for allowing this to happen.

  Much to his relief, he was alone. He stood up, limping to the kitchen. He leaned over the counter to catch his breath for a moment. He rinsed his face in the sink, washing out the dampness from his beard.

  Hunched over the kitchen sink, Peter caught his breath. An abnormal sense of calm swept over him.

  We can’t leave.

  Using a dish towel, he patted his beard dry. As he glared out towards the kitchen’s window, Michael parked his truck near the house’s side entrance. Forcefully turning off the faucet, Peter watched Michael exit his truck.

  “Hey Peter,” Michael greeted his brother-in-law unenthusiastically.

  “What’re you doing here? What’re the boxes for?” Peter questioned Michael’s presence as his own form of greeting.

  “Dani asked me to drop these off for you guys.”

  “Well I haven’t seen Dani all day. When did you speak to her?” Peter’s suspicion grew. Unaware of Dani’s request, he felt a deeper motivation behind Michael’s visit.

  “She called this afternoon,” Michael explained. “She sounded distressed about something. Don’t really know why…would you have any idea?”

  “That’s weird,” he said, not buying Michael’s story, although it was the truth. “I can’t figure out where she’s gone to.”

  Marshall looked on from the other room, watching the scene unfold. Taking great pleasure in knowing what was unfolding, a slight grin cracked the corners of his mouth.

  “I don’t know,” Michael said, his patience growing thin. “Maybe she’s trying to get away from the alcoholic.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You know, Peter.” Michael sighed. “If you weren’t married to my sister, I’d punch you right in your arrogant little mouth.”

  “Then just do it! Why let that detail stop you?” Any regard for keeping the peace for Dani’s sake had gone out the window.

  Michael swung at Peter who ducked with ease.

  The two men wrestled each other to the ground and Marshall’s grin grew to a full smile.

  Peter was quick enough not to get pinned beneath Michael. He knew it would be a bad spot which he wouldn’t be able to break. On the ground, Peter tried crawling away. Michael grabbed him by the ankle, pulling him right back, preventing escape. With the strength advantage, the situation benefitted Michael the longer they stayed on the ground. He fully intended to choke out Peter. That would shut him up for a few minutes so he could run his damned errand for Dani. Get the boxes into the house and leave.

  Peter avoided the hold, flipping himself onto his back. Using his own legs to lock Michael in place, he landed a couple of direct punches to his face.

  “We aren’t leaving here,” Peter shouted clambering to his feet.

  It would
take more than a few punches to subdue him though as Michael tackled Peter from behind. With the wind knocked out of him, Peter was at the mercy of Michael’s choke hold and could feel himself fading.

  “You can’t make us leave.” He gasped for air.

  In a desperate attempt to stay alert, Peter grabbed Michael’s head, using his leverage to force his thumbs into his eyes. Michael screamed as blood dripped from his sockets onto his cheeks and Peter’s hands.

  Marshall looked on in satisfaction. Not necessarily proud of the situation but simply acknowledging the development in his residence. It was time to take back his home from these pests.

  Michael writhed in pain along the floor, helplessly covering his eyes as a useless salve to his pain. His scream rang throughout the house.

  Peter, on the other hand, remained calm. Michael would not know this, as his brother-in-law kept silent. Completely taken over by an outside entity and no longer of his own self. His eyes, while expressionless and not showing the slightest shred of mercy, held sharp contract to the rest of his face which contorted into a crazed visage.

  “How dare you?” Peter spoke. “This was none of your concern.”

  It was over. The damage was irreversible. Michael, disoriented and in need of medical attention, did all he could to find something to hold onto. He pulled himself up, relying completely on a sofa to lean on. Peter stood by and watched Michael’s struggle.

  As Michael barely held himself up, blood and sweat dripping and unable to catch his breath, Peter turned, grabbing the typewriter. With one quick swing it connected with Michael’s temple.

  SMACK!

  The impact against Michael’s skull made a short, dull crushing sound.

  Michael fell to the ground, lying there motionless.

  Peter placed the typewriter back in its place on the table. Michael’s blood dripped off the aluminum surface creating a fresh outline beneath it in the wood.

  “You should have stayed out of it.”