The Attic

by Rachel Xu

  His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, shoulders shaking as he began to sob. His own selfishness had killed her. If only he had banished her the very first day she'd come.

  It was all his fault.

  “Ian—” Hannah's voice broke through his sobs. “What happened!”

  “Don't tell me—” he cried. “I don't want to hear it.”

  “Whatever's the matter, dear? You look terrible—what happened to your face?” She knelt down and took him into her arms as though he was a small boy, and dabbed a tissue at his cheeks. He pushed her away gently and struggled to stand up. She gripped his elbow until he'd steadied himself.

  Ian blinked several times and focused on her face. She didn't seem horrified or tearful—just concerned.

  She didn't know then.

  Did anyone know yet?

  “Why were you crying?” she asked, examining his face, one hand on her plump hip. “That's not like you at all. Is it the pain?”

  He hesitated.

  “It's . . . just allergies. Mold.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You've got blood all over your nose, bruised eyes, and you're white as a sheet.”

  She reached a motherly hand toward his cheek and he stepped out of the way. He didn't want anymore coddling. He had to find Lily's body before someone else did. And then he had to figure out what to do from there. People would eventually come looking for her. The police as well.

  But aside from all that, how could he endure life even one more day now that she was gone?

  “Ian—answer me. What happened to your face.”

  Her sharp words were like hammer blows to his skull. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he was hungover. He pressed a palm to his temple. “I'm fine, Hannah. Just had a fall in the dark and bumped my nose.”

  “Well, goodness, Ian, what on earth were you doing wandering around in the dark? I thought you had a flashlight—I gave you one.”

  He closed his eyes, fighting back more weary tears. “Have you seen Lily?” he asked evenly, though his voice caught at the end.

  “Of course, we all stayed together until the power came back on. She's in Angie's room right now.”

  “Lily's in . . . in Angie's room?” His eyes widened, skin tingling all over. How was this even possible? He gulped in a lungful of air to stop the dizziness and balance himself.

  “Yes, and we'll soon be heading downstairs for a late dinner of some sort.” She gave him a once over. “Your nose is swollen and purple. Is it broken?”

  He blinked, relief beginning to warm his body like a soothing massage oil. “I've got to see her,” he said, starting down the hall.

  Hannah grabbed his bicep. “You'll do no such thing, young man. Not until you've cleaned yourself up a bit.”

  Lily finished off a slice of cold pumpkin pie and licked her lips. She dabbed her lips with a napkin and pushed back her chair. Mike and Chris were speaking in subdued tones together at the opposite end of the dining table—discussing the damage done in the fusebox room—and Hannah was sipping a cup of coffee with a far-away look in her eye. No one had spoken much with Lily over their makeshift dinners and she'd felt out of place; like a visitor.

  She hadn't seen Ian since he'd ordered her and Mike up to Hannah's room, and no one had cared to look for him either; being used to his come and go nature. “He'll be back when he feels like it,” Hannah had said. “He could be outside searching for the bear. If it was still inside, we'd know it—most likely went straight back out through whatever door it came in. Poor thing was probably just hungry.”

  Lily collected everyone's empty plates, stacked the fine China carefully, though it clinked here and there, and carried the lot into the kitchen where Angie was already washing dishes. When she went back into the dining room to collect the utensils, a disheveled Ian appeared in the open doorway—his short hair wet and tousled, shadows beneath his eyes, and a mildly bruised nose marring his handsome face.

  For a moment their gazes locked and then his face lit with a brilliant smile. He hurried around the table and scooped her up in his arms, swinging her around in a full circle and nearly whacking her feet off the China cabinet. He was laughing: the foreign sound of it like heaven to her ears. Had she ever once heard him laugh before?

  Ian beamed down at her, eyes alight, and set her on her feet. He gripped her shoulders in his warm palms. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

  Mike groaned and interjected loudly: “Give up the sap man—this morning you freaking banished her—and now this?”

  Lily flushed. She too was confused by his change in demeanor. Why was he so overjoyed to see her when he'd expressly told her to leave and never return? She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and went to the table, gathering the scattered utensils.

  Without a word, Ian retrieved some of the empty cups and followed her into the kitchen. She avoided eye contact with Mike as she passed him but sensed his watchful gaze on her back.

  After putting the silverware in the sink, she washed her hands and dried them on a dish towel, turning to face him. “What did you do to your nose?”

  He averted his gaze and Mike entered the room.

  “Yeah—what happened to your face?” Mike reiterated; a look of distaste in his eyes.

  “If you must know, I slipped in mess of your workroom.”

  Mike seemed to consider this a moment and nodded, his features softening. “Ah yes—the paint. Sorry man.”

  “Paint?” Lily startled. “What are you talking about?”

  Mike shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Lily. Seems an animal trashed the room.” He shifted his gaze to Ian. “What's weird about it is if a bear came in here scrounging for food, why go looking downstairs instead of sniffing out the kitchen? Makes no sense.” He raised an eyebrow but Ian didn't respond.

  “Well—I'm heading down there now to clean up a bit,” Mike said, rapping the counter top. “Care to lend a hand?”

  The apparent happiness at seeing Lily was gone from Ian's face now; replaced with the brooding look she was growing to resent. And something else. Irritation.

  “Lily—” he said, taking a gentle hold of her elbow and searching her face. “I'm going to go with Mike just for a few minutes. Promise me you'll stay here in the kitchen with Angie until I get back? I'll only be gone a half hour at most.”

  “All right. I'll help Angie finish the dishes.”

  “Actually, why don't you come with us?” He reached for her hand.

  “No way man,” Mike cut in. “She needn't trouble herself, she'll just ruin her shoes.”

  Lily laughed. “Yes, my poor little dainty shoes.”

  Ian had a wild look in his eyes now, as if he desperately wanted to say something but was holding back. “Fine,” he said after a handful of seconds, “but don't leave the kitchen.”

  For a moment she wanted to rebel but decided if Ian was going down to the basement with Mike for a while, this would be the perfect opportunity to see if the key in her pocket was the right one for the trunk in the attic. She would slip upstairs quickly, give it a try, and hurry back down before Ian returned.

  If she was going to stay here any longer—and she fully intended to—she had to be sure he wasn't hiding something.

  Ian seemed overly hesitant to leave, a fine line creasing his forehead. “Promise me you'll stay right here in the kitchen till I get back?”

  “Sure, Ian,” she said. “I'll be here.”

  He searched her eyes once more, looking distrustful. She turned away. To be fair, she had set his pet parrot free into the forest and had done nothing to earn his trust at all; on the contrary. Was it possible he still hadn't yet discovered the bird was missing, or did he know but hadn't said anything? Her heart contracted at the thought, fresh guilt making her nauseous. She hoped the bird was okay.

  She glanced at Mike who was standing by the door, watching them carefully with a look of impatience.

  Ian moved
away from her and followed Mike out into the dining room.

  Lily stood before the dusty old trunk and stared down at it, fingering the bow and blade of the key in her pocket.

  She hunched down and examined the carvings up close. They seemed to be telling a story of some sort. On both the left end, sides and curved top of the chest, there were humans and creatures alike, dancing and feasting in a joyous party. In the center of the front side of the chest, a maiden stood with arms above her head. She held what appeared to be the sun in her hands, and in the middle of the sun was the key hole. On the right sides and top of the trunk, the carvings depicted monstrous creatures screaming in rage and pain while encircling a figure shrouded in robes.

  Lily pulled the key from her pocket with trembling fingers, heart racing and a prickly heat moving through her body. This was it—if she opened the trunk to find a dead body, she would run away and never, ever return.

  Inserting the key in the lock, she turned to the right until it clicked, and with a deep breath, lifted the heavy lid.

  No corpse.

  Just folded clothes, a disintegrating hooded cloak made from dried leaves, a handful of Polaroid photographs, and a leather-bound journal.

  No riches, no skeleton, no horrible secret—just the average sort of things one might expect to find inside a trunk. Though the cloak was rather strange.

  She picked up the stack of photos, frowning. There were three in total.

  The first had been taken in this very attic: an old man and a young dark-haired boy standing in front of the closed trunk. Neither were smiling. The next was of the same boy whittling away at a piece of wood while the old man sat nearby watching with a pipe in his mouth. It appeared to have been taken at the maiden fountain in the backyard. The final photo was more recent—the boy in his late teens. The man had grown a curly beard. They were standing beside one of the gargoyles at the front entrance of the mansion. Lily recognized them now: It was her late grandfather, Auguste Kline, and the young man was Ian Hawke.

  She shuffled to the first photo again, wondering why she hadn't recognized the young boy as Ian. She stared at the photo and squinted. With a sense of unease, she realized there was something wrong with his eyes. Maybe it had to do with the age of the photo or the lighting, but they seemed to be solid black—like two empty holes in his skull. She rubbed the photo on her sleeve in case it was still marred by dust and lifted it closer to her face. Yes, his entire eyes were black. Not even a trace of white around the irises.

  Lily shuddered and placed the photos back into the trunk, picking up the journal instead. A silky, maroon-colored ribbon was tied around the leather cover and the papers were yellowed. The cover wasn't dusty like the photos. Had it been looked at more recently? She noted the time on her wristwatch and reluctantly set the journal back down. She'd been gone from the kitchen ten minutes now and had best be heading back before her absence was discovered. She'd have to take a look at the journal later when she had more time.

  Before closing the trunk, she pulled the folded clothes and the cloak out and set them atop a nearby crate, wanting to see if there was anything else in the bottom.

  There was nothing to see but a protrusion in the center—something flat and round golden. She leaned in over the rim to get a closer look. It was another lock. Was there a narrow compartment in the base of the trunk? It could be no more than three inches deep, if even that.

  Retrieving the key from the lid, she tried it in the second lock.

  It didn't fit.

  Lily sat back on her heels and sighed. Here she was momentarily relieved that Ian had nothing hidden in the trunk besides some dusty photos and a journal. But now this. What might be contained within the locked compartment? Incriminating papers of some sort? More jewels?

  Straightening up, she gathered the folded clothes and cloak in her arms and put them back in the trunk as she'd found them; sneezing on the cloud of dust that billowed up out of it. She picked up a couple of dried leaves that had fluttered to the floor and tossed them into the trunk. Noting the time again, she locked the trunk, and tucked the journal beneath her shirt, securing it behind the belt of her waistband. She switched off the overhead light and crept back downstairs; listening for any sounds in the hallway.

  Seeing and hearing no one around, she hurried down to the kitchen, hoping Ian hadn't returned.

  Chapter 17

  When Lily reached the dining room, Angie was sitting at the table drinking a coffee and reading the paper. She smiled up at Lily as she entered the room.

  “I just made a fresh pot of decaf if you'd like some,” she said. “It's in the kitchen.”

  With a pleasant smile and nod of thanks, Lily went into the kitchen and instead of pouring a coffee, went to a private corner where Angie would be unable to see her, and pulled out the journal. With an eye on the door, she untied the silk ribbon and slipped it into her pocket for safe keeping. She opened the journal to the first page, glancing at the open door again. If Ian returned, she should be able to hear him in the dining room first with enough time to hide the journal.

  There was no name written in the front page, just the first entry. The handwriting was in black pen: wide loops, slightly shaky. She couldn't tell if it was a man or woman's hand.

  She read quickly, fairly skimming the entries:

  August 8

  I do not know why I am bothering to begin a new journal when no one will ever read it, but I suppose old habits die hard.

  The summer is coming to an end and I am worried about the winter. I lost my job of twenty years, the bank took my home, and I am penniless. All of my resources are tapped and stretched thin.

  I have no family and nowhere to go.

  It's over for me.

  September 13

  There is a bitter nip in the air. Summer has packed up and gone and autumn has taken its studious watch. When his brother winter arrives in a torrent of wind and ice, my time will come to an end. I do not have the fortitude to stay in a homeless shelter. My pride will not let me. I will not be that kind of man. Despite what others may think, I still have my dignity.

  I intend to spend my final days in the heart of the forest, enjoying nature and solitude, away from judgmental, uncaring civilization. When the cold inevitably comes, I refuse to huddle in a city alley under a blanket of soiled newspapers eating scraps from a dumpster. I would rather freeze or starve to death sitting against the bark of an indifferent tree.

  She flipped the page.

  September 15

  I can not believe my good fortune.

  I have discovered an abandoned hunting cabin in the woods. At least, I presume it to be abandoned. It is run down and in disrepair and looks as though it hasn't been used in a decade. Nevertheless, there are several cans of beans and soup in the cupboard, a box of matches, a wood stove, and an axe. There are also two rifles and a crate of ammo. I will be able to hunt for food! I can only hope the owners do not return until spring. It is my hope they will never return.

  There is a small shed behind the cabin, but it is padlocked. This is strange considering the cabin was left wide open. I wonder what is in it.

  From all I have observed, I have come to the conclusion that whoever was here before me fled in a hurry.

  I hope I am not squatting in a criminal's lair.

  Lily paused at the sound of footfall, back stiffening. She shut the cover, stuffed the book into her pants under her shirt and stood squarely, heart pounding.

  But it was only Angie—come to refill her coffee mug.

  Lily busied herself by rooting through a pen drawer, pretending to be looking for something, and as soon as Angie went back into the dining room, she reopened the journal and began reading again; overwhelmed with a voracious hunger to read every last page before Ian's return.

  September 26

  I finally managed to break into the shed using the axe. There is absolutely nothing inside it except a large wooden chest. It is a marvelous work of ar
t. The carvings covering its surface are intricate and flawless. They seem to jump out at you. The chest is locked unfortunately, and though I have searched both the cabin and the shed thoroughly, I can find no key.

  I have to know what is in it!

  October 7

  I made a grisly discovery today.

  I found a human skeleton thirty yards behind the cabin beneath some balsam firs. I'm not sure how long it has been there. It could be from the summer, or it could be fifty years old.

  I would not have discovered it had I not been chopping down trees and clearing away brush in preparation for winter. There is a rusted machete between the ribs. This is most definitely a case of murder, but if I go to the police, I will lose my home for the winter. My life! I can not.

  There were two golden keys laying in the tattered coat behind the spine. I suspect the victim must have swallowed them right before death. But I can only speculate.

  I am going to see if one of the keys is for the chest.

  Lily frowned, biting her lower lip in disappointment: The next few pages had suffered water damage and the ink had run all over the pages, making the text illegible. The next readable entry wasn't until an entire year later.

  Footsteps sounded in the dining room, along with the voice of Mike greeting Angie.

  Lily stuffed the diary beneath her shirt and went into the dining room with a casual air.

  Mike was alone, however.

  “Lily,” he said, turning toward her with a customary smile, a wistful look in his eyes. “Ian asked me to bring you to the study.” A humorless laugh. “Thinks I'm his butler or something.”

  “Can he wait a minute or two?” she asked. “I'd like to go to my room for a second.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Don't see why not. I'll let him know you'll be there in a few.”

  With a grateful smile, she went out into the corridor, hurried up the staircase, and closed her bedroom door behind her with a click.

  Unable to restrain her curiosity, she pulled out the journal and opened it to the next legible entry.