The Attic

by Rachel Xu

  July 28

  I am moving into the mansion this week. I still can not believe this is happening to me. I owe it all to that blessed chest, but I absolutely must make certain that no one else ever gets their hands on it. No one must know.

  I need to find a safe place to hide it and guard it with my life.

  September 1

  I have fallen in love. In all my life, I have never seen such a beautiful woman. My heart leaps for joy in her presence. My dearest Serena, I would give all that I have for you. I would leave all this newfound wealth behind and never return, if only to have the honor of your companionship, your love.

  I wonder if she realizes how much I love her. I must tell her! I can not keep this to myself a day longer.

  She skimmed through the following year's worth of entries, much of them the honeyed reveries of a man in love enjoying his newfound riches and fortune.

  By now she knew the journal was Auguste's.

  June 4

  This past year has been heaven, the best year of my life. Two years ago, I thought I would freeze to death in the forest. Today I am a rich man living in a huge mansion.

  My darling Serena is with child.

  We were married privately because she did not want our relationship to be known. Sometimes I wonder if she is ashamed of me, but I realize she has her reasons. Maybe in time she will change her mind and we can make our marriage public.

  The next page was covered in rain drops.

  Or perhaps . . . tears.

  January 8

  Oh, bleary, wretched day of hell. My heart is torn in a million pieces. I shall never recover. My precious Serena has died giving birth to our daughter.

  I feel only resentment toward my child, for she took my angel from me. I know it's not her fault, but I can not bear to look at her. She has her mother's eyes.

  Perhaps in time I will grow to love her. That is, should this heart of mine ever find within itself the ability to love again.

  For now, when I look at this infant's face, I see only the cold white face of my poor dead Serena.

  There was only one more entry after this and the remaining half of the journal was nothing but blank pages.

  April 21

  Horrible things are happening. I was such a fool! There is too much danger for my daughter and I. The chest must be locked and the keys hidden. My daughter must be sent away. It is no longer safe for her to stay with me! Oh, how I will miss her. She is the last thing I have to remember my dear Serena by.

  I have lost everything.

  Everything!

  Lily hid the journal as well as the key from her pocket by folding them carefully together into a sweater and tucking them into the chest of drawers with the rest of her shirts. She brushed her hair, touched up her makeup and went downstairs to the study where Ian was purportedly waiting for her.

  Ian paced back and forth on the Persian rug filling the sitting area in front of Auguste's desk; waiting for Mike to show up with Lily. As long as everyone was up and about he knew the killer wouldn't make a move, but it was eleven o'clock now and they'd soon be retiring. He had so much to tell her and so little time.

  Plunking down in Auguste's leather chair, he leaned against the tall back and drummed his fingers on the desktop loudly. He had decided to meet with Lily in Auguste's study specifically because it was the only room in the mansion with soundproof walls. He hadn't decided how much he would tell her, but he wanted to be sure no one else could overhear.

  The room was lined with twenty-foot bookshelves with spiraled pillars dividing them into sections, and the ceiling was painted in the Renaissance style of horses and royalty. A rolling ladder was needed to reach the uppermost books and he recalled many hours as a child sliding back forth along the walls, much to Hannah's ongoing chagrin.

  He smiled at the thought of Hannah. She'd always been special to him.

  But he was going to miss her.

  She wouldn't understand why he had to go. It would break her heart. Nevertheless, after all these years, the time had come for him to leave and there was really no choice in the matter. He'd already written letters of dismissal for Chris and Angie, which he'd slipped under their bedroom doors a half hour ago. Each letter included a substantial cheque enabling them to live in luxury for the rest of their days, with the stipulation that they had to leave this very night. Angie had always dreamed of owning her own restaurant and Chris had talked about retiring in Europe and buying a vineyard. They would both be able to pursue their dreams.

  He was going to wait until the end before talking to Mike, however.

  Mike would be instructed to drain the aquarium and burn down the mansion once everyone had gone, and his payment would be all the jewels in the forest workshop. Then Mike must burn down the tree as well. When Ian had first arrived in the attic as a boy, he'd brought along the seed for a fast growing tree in his pocket. In his teen years he'd hollowed it out it and converted it into a bedroom and a workshop.

  Nothing must be left of this place but a smoldering ruin. That way no one else could ever make the same mistakes as Auguste.

  Ian didn't know what exactly to do about Hannah though. There was no way she'd accept any money from him; nor was she likely to leave without kicking and screaming.

  The intercom buzzed on the side of the desk, interrupting his thoughts like a brass gong.

  “Who's there?” he said, holding down the talk button.

  “It's Lily.”

  He pressed the release button and the heavy oak doors swung inward.

  Though the study was usually left unlocked, it could be securely sealed from the inside whenever necessary. He had a feeling they were being watched; even if only from a distance.

  Lily came in through the open doors, sea-green eyes widening in a child-like way as her face lit with a smile. Her hair was loose and hung in straight lines to her shoulders.

  The very sight of her soothed his aching chest while simultaneously filling him with dread. But it wasn't just her looks that drew him. It was her playfulness, her fighting spirit and strong mind, her carefree laughter. She was like a splash of color in his drab gray world.

  Ian jumped to his feet and went for a glossy chair, pulling it up to the desk so they could sit facing one another. She sat down and he pushed the button under his desk to shut and lock the heavy doors.

  “What's this all about, Ian?” Her look was guarded.

  He let out a long exhale, sitting down in Auguste's chair with squared shoulders. “It's time I answered some of your questions.”

  She clasped her hands together, unable to mask the intrigue that sparked in her eyes. “Why the change of heart?”

  “Because your life is in danger.” His tone was grave.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the closed doors and seemed to stiffen. Did she think it was he she had to fear?

  He tugged up his shirt sleeve and began unraveling the gauze around his arm, working quickly lest he lose his resolve. He flicked her a glance and she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.

  After unraveling the final section, he laid his bare arm over the desk.

  Lily stood and leaned over it. Other than a ring of indented pink scars, the shark bites were completely healed.

  “How is this possible?” she said in a whisper, meeting his gaze as though afraid.

  He leaned back in his chair and she sank into hers.

  “What I'm about to tell you,” he said, “will be . . . difficult for you to believe.”

  Chapter 18

  Mike stood in front of the portrait of Auguste and gripped a pair of keys in the palm of his hand.

  One was the key he'd just now foraged from Lily's dresser, and the other was a key he'd discovered weeks ago under a floorboard in the hallway where Auguste's body had been found. After the body was taken away, Mike noticed a loose one-foot section of board, and not wanting it to worsen and become a tripping hazard, he set about repairing it straight
away. He retrieved his tools, removed the piece, and startled to find a golden key laying in the gap.

  The first thing he'd done was tried it in the warden lock of the trunk in the attic.

  But it didn't fit and he was terribly frustrated; for the entire time he'd been working for Auguste as a handy man, he'd been searching for the key to that trunk. Many nights over the years, Auguste went up to the attic and stayed there for hours at a time; or stranger still, even several days at a time. Mike had investigated only to find nothing of interest but the locked trunk. His curiosity was not to be appeased until he'd finally taken a look in the trunk himself.

  He had a hunch that the key in Lily's room that morning—which she'd claimed to be for her diary—might just be the key he'd been searching for. It was physically identical to the other, but the cut was different.

  When Lily had tripped over the flat stone that ended up being the lid to a manhole leading down into a vat room, Mike was certain he'd found the mother lode: Auguste's hidden treasure troves. He returned to the room this very morning, on his own, and spent two full hours trying to open them. He was experienced with reprogramming codes in gated communities and hoped he'd have the same success here. The keypads were a product by a manufacturer he'd dealt with several times before and he knew how to access and change the master codes; that is, if they hadn't been changed by Auguste. He began experimenting and found that five of the vats had indeed been changed; but the sixth vat, in the middle of a row of three, had beeped—letting him know the master code hadn't been altered. He reprogrammed the code and punched it in.

  There was a moment of great anticipation as the light on the digital keypad switched from red to green. But as the lid slid open like elevator doors, he found the vat to be empty.

  Aggravated to tears and running out of time, he left the vat room, determined to return later when he had more time to crack the codes of the other five vats. He then went to town to run some errands and picked up the bouquet of flowers for Lily.

  He could not believe his luck when he'd found that key on her bedroom floor, and feigned indifference when she picked it up and said it was hers.

  There were many delays with the rain and the power outage and having to clean up the mess in the workroom, but now that he was alone, his priority was to open the trunk.

  Mike stuffed the keys into his back jean pocket and reached out for the painting, intending to press down on the bottom right hand corner: but something jolted within him and pecked at his insides.

  He paused and waited for the indigestion to pass—but the pain intensified and radiated outward from his stomach—his face flushing with fever.

  Suddenly parched and desperate for water, Mike reached for and gripped the railing and descended the staircase, rushing down the corridor toward the dining room and kitchen. The little sparks of pain had turned to red-hot flames—consuming him from within.

  With a cry, he fell to his knees and rolled across the floor, clawing at his belly.

  The fiery fingers in his midsection found their way to his spinal cord and climbed up to his brain. Convulsions seized him and he foamed at the mouth, eyes rolling backward in his head. A numbing coldness started in his fingertips and toes and spread up his arms and legs into his back—extinguishing the fire and leaving his body devoid of any sensation at all. The cold crept into his brain and choked out the last bit of fire.

  He lay flat on his back in the middle of the corridor with eyes shut, basking in the numbness as his wits returned.

  What had happened? Was it a heart attack? at his age?

  Deciding he'd better call an ambulance, he tried to open his eyes.

  They didn't move.

  Mike swallowed down a surge of panic and mentally willed his body to obey. He tried to wiggle his fingers but they didn't budge either. His toes were equally disobedient.

  Now in a full-blown panic, he urged his body to kick and scream—pictured himself doing it—but nothing happened. Not even a twitch or a whisper. How long must he lie here before someone found him? And what if they thought he was dead?

  His eyes snapped open, but not of his own doing.

  And through the windows of his eyes, he watched himself stand to his feet; yet he felt nothing.

  Hannah emerged from the dining room and walked toward him. As she drew closer, she furrowed her brow. “Are you okay, Micheal? You look at a bit pale.”

  He wanted to scream for help—beg her to call an ambulance—but instead he heard himself say: “I'm fine. Just tired.”

  Why had he said that?

  He wasn't fine at all!

  “All right then, just checking.” She smiled. “I'm off to bed, and you look like you could get some sleep yourself.” She patted his shoulder and moved past him, continuing down the corridor and heading upstairs.

  He began to walk toward the front entrance; again not of his own doing.

  As the walls went by, the various arched doorways, paintings and statues, he sensed himself being pushed further and further back into the recesses of his mind until it seemed he was looking out at the world through a very narrow tunnel.

  A prisoner in his own body.

  Someway, somehow, he was at the mercy of an unknown puppeteer.

  Ian rolled his sleeve back down and crossed both arms over his chest. “Do you believe that earth is the only place where life exists?” he said.

  “Are you asking if I believe in alien planets?”

  “No, more like, different dimensions.”

  She gaped at him as though he'd lost his mind. “It's not something I've given much thought to, Ian. Are you trying to change the subject? Tell me about your arm already!”

  He drew in a breath and made an effort to keep the impatience from his voice. “Let's say there were other dimensions,” he said. “What do you think would happen if there was a rift?”

  “Are we talking about a portal to another world?” She raised an eyebrow and cracked a grin.

  Despite the room being soundproof, he lowered his voice and leaned forward. “What if I were to tell you that there is an object—here from the beginning of time—that can take you to another dimension. An object that has been fought over for millennium.”

  She made no response to that, not even the twitch of an eyebrow.

  “Everyone wants its power,” he said, “but no one can control it.”

  She pursed her lips. “What are you getting at, Ian?” she asked, frustration in her tone, the humorous glint gone from her eye. “You're talking nonsense.”

  “Stay with me. I'm getting there.”

  She sighed. “Go on then.”

  “That object now resides in the attic of this mansion, you see, and it's the reason Auguste became wealthy. Before he found it, he was only a homeless pauper.”

  She sat bolt upright, eyes widening. “The secret compartment in the trunk—I knew it! Is it stocks or something? Gold, jewels?”

  “How did you—”

  “—I'm sorry, Ian,” she interrupted. “I took the key from your workshop. Didn't you know it was missing—? Your bird, he . . . he flew away.” She gave him a timid look as though anticipating a blasting, and cleared her throat. She broke eye contact. “That's why I got lost in the forest. I'm so very sorry about your bird.” She lifted contrite eyes. “I was chasing after him but just couldn't catch him, and got lost and . . . somehow bumped my head. I must have fallen . . . ”

  Ian had to bite his tongue to hold back his temper, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. “No,” he said calmly, though it took all his strength, “the bird is still in his cage, safe and sound. I didn't notice the key was gone.” Blast it. His pulse picked up its pace and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Lily—” he said slowly, dreading the answer, “where is the key now?”

  She hesitated. “It's in my room, tucked away.”

  He let out a sharp, breathy exhale. “Fine. We'll have to go get it. It can't be
left laying around, you have no idea—”

  “What's in the bottom of the trunk,” she asked again, sounding impatient. “Stolen jewels?”

  He considered this a moment and thought of his workshop. Did she think all those jewels were stolen?—that he was a thief? No wonder she wouldn't stop snooping around.

  “Suffice it to say that Auguste didn't use the object simply for financial gain,” he said in a flat tone. “He did something that disturbed the natural order of things in another dimension. Think I'm crazy if you want, but it's the truth.” He steepled his hands and stared her down. “In so doing, he caused a war of evil against good, and evil was quick to win out. Anyone with a shred of good left in them went into hiding, but many of them did not escape with their lives. Some of them fled into this dimension”—he cleared his throat—“and I have sheltered them within the forest and the estate for many years now.”

  He paused, wanting to put this delicately. “All of this happened because of your grandfather.”

  Lily could only stare at Ian.

  She didn't know what to think and could hardly process anything he'd said. The only thing that made sense so far was that something in the trunk had made her grandfather rich. Auguste's journal entries admitted much the same. Everything else Ian had said was some kind of sci-fi blibble-blabble. Was he hallucinating, or high on drugs?

  “What did my grandfather do to incite this, um”—she paused—“this war, in a, what did you say—other dimension?”

  Ian's dark eyes were smoldering; no doubt he knew she was patronizing him.

  “He is responsible for the death of Serena—a powerful enchantress who ruled over the land of Alvernia—” he explained, “the other dimension. When she died, Morack—who was imprisoned deep within the core of Alvernia—escaped. See, for many years, he and his followers were kept captive. But her death allowed them to escape and they set loose like a cloud of locust—devouring everyone in their path.” His brow was heavy as though he carried a great burden. “Alvernia is but a shadow of the world it once was.” He looked away. “It is completely ruled by evil now.”