The Attic

by Rachel Xu

  What Lily had said to him earlier that morning was curious, though most likely a false alarm. She may just have seen one of the sand sharks—but she'd specifically said it was big and black.

  He had to make sure that no one had trespassed in his aquarium.

  Ian swam around some jutting coral and through a cluster of wavy seaweed. The weeds parted and he collided with the bulky side of a five foot sand tiger shark. It responded by gaping its jaw in an exaggerated yawn. Recognizing this as a warning, Ian was quick to swim away, confident the irritated shark would leave him be.

  The shark didn't follow and dove down to the deepest part of the aquarium, exploring the bottom. Since sand tigers were usually docile creatures, he saw no reason to be nervous, and took his time scoring the perimeters of the aquarium; keeping his distance whenever he spotted one of the sharks. As an experienced diver, he was used to them and knew how to play it safe.

  Other than coral and schools of fish, there was nothing of interest to be seen—and no sign of a fellow scuba diver having been there either. That being said, if there had been one, there may or may not be any evidence of it.

  Ian decided Lily had really just seen one of the bigger sharks and he made his way back toward the exit, but stopped abruptly when he spotted a pair of sharks near the tunnel. No matter—he'd wait a minute until they moved out of the way.

  He swam closer and kept out of sight behind an area of seaweed.

  They seemed in no hurry to leave, so he left his hiding place and swam around the sharks, intending to duck into the tunnel behind them. But without warning, the larger of the two darted in front of him—blocking his escape.

  This wasn't right.

  Sand tigers weren't typically aggressive like this. He moved away from them but came face-to-face with the beady eyes of another.

  Something was wrong.

  Kicking upwards, he tried to swim over top the creature only to find himself stuck above three circling sharks with no access to the tunnel. His throat tightened but he willed himself to stay calm. He swam deeper into the tank, toward the middle; hoping the sharks would lose interest. They'd been fed only three hours ago—he'd specifically checked with the marine biologist to be sure.

  He dove down to the bottom where a florescent-orange rock marked the spot. Flipping open a square lid next to the rock, he punched one of the dozens of panic buttons that were spread throughout the aquarium. The alarm would sound all throughout the mansion.

  Ian froze, sensing a presence behind him.

  He whipped around against the resistance of the water as a large male surged toward him with gaping jaws—ragged, skinny teeth exposed and bubbly water trailing through them.

  With no weapon to aid him, he smashed his fist into the shark's snout, skinning his knuckles on its sandpaper flesh. The shark careened past him and disappeared deeper into the tank.

  In its wake, three more sharks hovered in the shadows of seaweed and coral, watching him with cold eyes and conical snouts. The sharks had never behaved so aggressively in all his years of swimming in the tank—and he had no idea what was going on now.

  Thrusting himself with all his might away from the sharks, Ian dove down and pulled himself through the mounds of coral on the aquarium floor, not daring to look back.

  At a sudden yank on his flipper, he shot a glance over his shoulder.

  A smaller sand tiger was only a few feet behind him—a chunk of the rubber flipper in its teeth. Ian plunged forward and swam as fast as he could toward the exit—adrenaline pumping through his veins like liquid nitrogen.

  The dark circle of the exit was only five meters ahead when another shark slid out from the seaweed to his right. With a flick of its caudal fin, it tore towards him and snapped at his face—missing by inches as Ian jerked his head and body backward.

  With nowhere to go but up, he pushed himself off the aquarium floor and scraped his shin on protruding coral. A trail of blood seeped from the gash, turning the surrounding waters red.

  Now he'd gone and done it.

  The tunnel was blocked and the surface of the aquarium was covered in thick glass. But with no other options, Ian kicked his feet and swam away swiftly, hoping the clouding of blood would confuse the sharks. Already the water was boiling behind him as they shot back and forth through the crimson streams, mouths gaping as they sought their elusive prey.

  They'd be upon him in a matter of seconds.

  Above him two sets of shoes appeared on the glass, running. He pressed his palms against the glass, chills tripping up and down his spine; expecting to be grabbed from below with every breath. Though he couldn't see clearly through the thickness of the floor, he knew it was Mike and Lily above him. Lily dropped down on her hands and knees and pounded on the glass, shouting his name. Her voice was muffled above the roar of the swirling waters below him.

  Mike started smashing the floor with the back of a hammer or crow bar. The glass was too thick to break but maybe the vibrations would confuse the sharks.

  It was his only chance.

  Pivoting, Ian forced himself to look down at the frenzy beneath him. A long shadow moved through the cloudiness, less than a meter below him.

  Hoping the sharks would stay where the blood was thickest, he took off once more in the direction of the exit.

  It was now or never.

  Ten meters left . . . then five.

  Three . . . two, one.

  He dove into the tunnel, kicking wildly and frantically—and burst to the surface of the vat.

  Flinging his right leg over the edge of the vat, then the other, his body flooded with relief just as a terrible pressure clamped onto his left arm.

  A shark had followed him, its row of crooked teeth now clenched down on his forearm—lidless eyes dark and fierce in their intent.

  There was no pain yet.

  Thinking quickly, he rammed his fingers into the right eye of the creature before it could twist his arm off. The shark released him and jerked its head away. Ian pulled his mangled arm from the water and fell off the ladder, crashing to the stone floor.

  The pain exploded through his body then, as though someone had skinned his whole arm and poured salt all over the exposed flesh.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his bicep, momentarily unable to breathe. Forcing himself to his feet by sheer willpower, he yanked off his mask and mouthpiece and stumbled toward the wall.

  Slamming his palm against the door release, the wall panel slid open and he lunged out into the pool room, losing consciousness as he hit the floor.

  Chapter 7

  “Over here—” Lily screamed, running toward Ian's motionless body.

  They'd been pounding the floor area between the pool and the tub when an opening had appeared in the wall across the room and Ian had fallen through.

  Already blood was seeping and forming a puddle around his body. He lay on his back, propped up by the oxygen tank.

  “Check him for wounds—” Mike shouted from behind her.

  “Why was he in the tank?” she gasped, dropping to her knees beside him. Mike reached her and followed suit.

  “I don't know”—he said gruffly—“ask him later. For now, find out where all this blood is coming from. Help me take off this wet suit and tank.”

  With trembling fingers, she pulled the wet suit back off Ian's wet head and tugged the tank straps from each shoulder. She pulled his right arm through and scooted around to his other side to do the same with his left, slipping on the blood. The suit was shredded on this arm, spurting lacerations showing through.

  Mike removed the tank delicately as Chris appeared and hurried toward them.

  “Call an ambulance, Chris—” she shouted.

  “No—” a female voice responded nearby.

  Lily glanced over her shoulder. Hannah was standing a few feet away; a stern look on her face, hands on her hips.

  “No?”

  Hannah shook her head
. “Auguste—your grandfather, told me that no doctor was ever to touch Ian. Even when he was found as a child . . . so ill . . . we nursed him back to health ourselves.”

  “What! But why? That's insane—Call a doctor now!”

  “Stop wasting time,” Hannah snapped, approaching them with an air of authority. “Mike—go find some scissors.”

  Mike took off and left the room by the east wing exit.

  “But Hannah”—Lily cried—“we've got to call an ambulance!”

  Hannah knelt down beside her and touched Ian's pale cheek tenderly. “No. He would have wanted it this way.”

  Ian's eyes were shut, hair soaked and plastered to his head.

  “But—he'll die.” She touched the glossy material covering his shoulder and quickly withdrew her hand. A tear slipped down her cheek, pulse pounding out of control. “He's bleeding all over the floor—” Already her hands and jeans were saturated with blood.

  Ian's blood.

  She could hardly breathe.

  At the sound of footsteps on the nearby stone stairs, Mike burst into the room with scissors in one hand and a First Aid box in the other. Chris, who'd just been standing by like a lost puppy, joined Mike's side with a sudden look of determination and took the First Aid kit from him.

  “Lily—hold the material off Ian's wounds while Mike cuts it,” Hannah instructed, her white apron stained crimson.

  Focusing on steadying her breathing, Lily held the sleeve as Mike sliced through it. Now that Ian's arm was free from the tightness of the suit, blood spurted violently from the ring of holes in his skin and muscle.

  “Out of my way now, please.” Hannah moved Lily aside. “Chris—gimme some disinfectant. And Mike—get Lily out of here.”

  Before she could even protest, Mike was helping Lily to her feet and hurrying her from the room, her skimmers slipping and sliding on the bloodied glass floor.

  .

  Lily sat bolt upright in bed.

  Visions of Ian's bloody arm and white face flooded her mind like a strobe light. But that wasn't what had awoken her.

  Someone was crying softly.

  In the hallway.

  And the cries were growing fainter still, moving away, going down the stairs.

  Several hours earlier, Hannah had come up from the basement to announce that Ian was awake and doing well. It was difficult to believe and Lily hadn't been allowed to see him either, despite her pleadings. The evening that had thus followed stretched long and lonely. She'd spent it pacing in her bedroom; skipping dinner due to anxiety.

  So, who was crying in the middle of the night? Was it Hannah?

  Lily climbed out of bed and went to the chest of drawers in the dark; groping around for a pair of track pants and a hoodie sweatshirt, along with her skimmers—which though thoroughly scrubbed, still bore traces of Ian's blood. She then retrieved a pocket flashlight from her purse and fastened her wristwatch, noting the time: half past one.

  She slipped out into the hall and tip-toed down the stairs to the front entrance with the aide of her flashlight. She then stood in the chilly corridor with only a faint flower-shaped beam of moonlight lighting it from the quatrefoil window, and listened for any sound of crying.

  A muted sound from the end of the corridor.

  Indiscernible.

  With the beam of her flashlight penetrating the darkness, Lily wandered down the massive hallway toward the far end stairwell. All the doors flanking the corridor were closed; and hearing no sounds, she made no attempts to open them. She didn't feel nervous really, just curious. The crying had been distinctly female and was likely Hannah. Only, where had she gone? Reaching the stairwell room, Lily stood still a moment and considered whether to go upstairs to the as yet unexplored west wing, or to venture downstairs to the pool room. Had they cleaned up Ian's blood? She shuddered and tugged on the battle axe. The wall panel slid open.

  Shining her flashlight down the stone steps, which smelled now of bleach and had clearly been scrubbed clean of crimson footsteps, Lily descended and opened the wooden door. Warm, chlorinated air wafted over her.

  The pool room was lit by numerous blue night lights within the aquarium—the slow-moving water reflecting off the walls and ceiling. Much to her relief, the glass floor was completely washed and polished and there was no trace of blood anywhere.

  The hidden panel on the right-hand side of the room that led into the scuba room was shut and invisible from where she stood. Just how many other hidden doors might there be in this place? And more importantly, why hadn't Mike told her about the scuba room when she'd asked about privacy? Was it possible that he didn't know about the room . . . or did he lie?

  Aside from the rippling reflection of the water, all was still and unmoving.

  She shuddered and wandered deeper into the room, beyond the empty jacuzzi tub, taking care not to tumble into it, until she reached the center of the aquarium. A chill ran up her spine at the memory of Ian's palms pressed up against the glass from underneath; reddish water all around him. Several wedges dented the floor where Mike had taken a crow bar to it. She got down on her knees and peered through the glass. The aquarium was deep here but there were several elongated shadows at the bottom; she wanted to see if it was the sharks.

  It was—only they weren't moving.

  Their bodies were sprawled over the bed of the tank, bobbing slightly in a mild current.

  Dead.

  Her throat clogged, back tensing. Why had they died?

  A scuffling sound came from behind and she spun around as a shadow darted across the wall above the tropical plants.

  “Who's there?” she said, pulse quickening. She jerked a glance around the room.

  Nothing.

  She took a deep breath and stood up. It must be her nerves getting to her after the trauma of that day. She left the center of the room and followed the perimeter back toward the east wing entrance; gripping her flashlight in her palm.

  Another shadow darted across the far right wall. She scanned the entire room.

  Nothing moved.

  Were the shadows just random movements of fish swimming past the blue water lights and reflecting off the walls?

  A deep, sighing breath rushed through the room—then went silent.

  Lily dropped her flashlight and ducked around a marble angel, pressing her back against the wall. Inch by inch she headed toward the open door, heart hammering against her ribs. Surely she was just hearing things.

  “Run, Lily, run,” a disembodied female voice murmured from somewhere close by.

  “H-Hannah?”

  As soon as the question had left her lips the blue lights of the aquarium flickered out and the room went entirely black, save for the stream of her fallen flashlight. On the verge of panic, she felt her way along the wall with wooden fingers and nearly screamed when she bumped into a statue.

  All she could hear was her own rasping breath.

  She held it in to mute it and moved forward again only to freeze when she realized the rasping breathing hadn't stopped.

  It wasn't her at all—it was someone beside her.

  A heated breath flowed down the side of her cheek and neck sending waves of terror through her body like a static charge.

  She tried to run toward the door but couldn't find anything with her outstretched hands. She scratched at the walls, desperate for the door and fully expecting to be grabbed from behind.

  So this is how Ian must have felt, she thought suddenly, subconsciously—trapped in the depths of the aquarium, horror closing in—waiting to be snatched away at any moment.

  Something scraped across the floor behind her and footsteps pounded to her right, no wait—behind. No—to the right. The whole room pulsated with footsteps, making it impossible to tell which direction they came from.

  Before she could react, pain shot through her back as though something sharp had sliced her skin—and a wheezing moan sounded to her right.

&nbs
p; Lily ran blindly to the left, forgetting she might tumble into the empty bathtub and break her neck—but finding a solid wall with her hands, she scrambled forward and rejoiced to touch the edge of the door frame.

  Hands grabbed her sweatshirt, pulling her backward.

  Instinctively, she jabbed her elbow into something soft—but the hands didn't let go. An arm wrapped around her waist and a hand clamped down over her mouth. She wanted to scream and bite as a smooth cheek pressed against hers.

  “Hush.” It was that female voice again.

  Lily clawed at the dainty hand over her mouth and paused for a split second when she realized the sleeve of her captor was visible: a flowing white silk.

  Something smacked hard into the back her head and her body went limp.

  Chapter 8

  Lily's head hurt and she groaned out loud, clutching it.

  At first she had no clue where she was. Then the memories of the attack in the pool room washed over her consciousness like a crashing wave. She snapped her eyes open and lifted her head. She lay in a heap in the front entranceway of the mansion, just beyond the Persian rug. Moonlight poured in through the window, reflecting off the black marble floor beneath her and accentuating the trailing white veins. Farther down the corridor, where the moonlight failed to reach, was a gaping darkness.

  Far off, deep within the mansion, someone was crying again.

  Faintly.

  Lurching to her feet, Lily stumbled up the staircase and frantically yanked open the door leading into Mike's bedroom. Pushing it shut behind her, she turned the lock and ran to his bedside—nearly tripping over a pile of clothes in her haste.

  He was already awake and turning on the lamp on his nightstand.

  Mike's room was like hers but flipped, with a similar sitting area surrounding a fireplace and a hand-carved canopy bed. She climbed up on it and sat at the foot.

  He struggled to sit up and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index. “Lily?” He blinked at her. “What's going on?” The room was mostly dark but thanks to the lamp, the area around his bed was suffused in muted orange light.