InkStains January

by John Urbancik

unleashes some demonic entity bent on possession and sex and death? What if she finds that tattered, dusty remnants of a jilted bride’s gown and the bride didn’t want to be disturbed? What if a spring-loaded, rust-coated trap is set to spring?

  No one opens the attic door that night.

  She doesn’t have a step ladder. Eventually, after a few weeks fending off questions about spiders, squirrels, skeletons, and lost silverware, she drags a chair beneath the attic entrance. It’s merely a thin piece of wood. She pushes it up and out of the way. The attic is dark, and high above her. The chair is barely enough for her to drag herself up.

  She retrieves a flashlight first. With a little bit of struggle, she hauls herself into the low, slope-ceiling attic.

  It’s not really much more than a crawl space. She shines the light into the corners, disturbing dry cobwebs, leaving eddies of shadow in the beam’s wake. There’s no floor, only the narrow edge of 2x4s crisscrossing a sea of pink insulation. There are no mice, no chests, no forgotten artwork, nothing by way of treasure. There’s one discarded tee shirt, small enough for a child, too small for her. It’s red, but the graphic on its front is cracked, faded, and indecipherable.

  Partly out of respect, partly cleanliness, and yes, partly for fear, she takes the tee shirt with her when she leaves. She climbs down without incident. The chair holds her. She doesn’t fall. She closes up the attic and, as there’s no reason not to, she forgets about it.

  And why not? There’s nothing in the attic.

  But she had a dream once, as a child, that she visited her godmother’s apartment in New York. In reality, past the front door there had been a kitchen on the left, doors to a bathroom and a bedroom on the right. But in the dream, another door had been squeezed between them, opening onto a staircase climbing to an attic that had never existed in New York City. Maybe twelve at the time, she’d ascended into darkness and discovered an extra, hidden room, with a window overlooking the greenest garden that never existed and a very old roll top desk. Every time she visited her godmother after that, despite that there were apartments on the floor above, and more apartments above that, she would check, just to make sure, that another unseen door didn’t simply appear. It never did.

  That extra door decided to make its real life appearance in her rented house a week after she explored the empty attic.

  The extra door had appeared between her bedroom and the bathroom. She knew there would be stairs. She knew the house had a second, hidden attic, and it would not be empty.

  Once she saw it, she couldn’t look away, not to get her phone to call someone, not to retrieve that flashlight, not to put on proper clothes. A door like this only gave you one chance to open it.

  Finally, she grabbed the knob. It turned easily. She knew there wouldn’t be a lock. On the other side: stairs led up into darkness.

  She ascended.

  She left the door open behind her, though she doubted it would matter.

  At the top of the stairs she had to turn to see the hidden attic. The top was lowered on the roll top desk. The window looked out onto some other-worldly garden.

  There was only enough light to see by. She went to the desk and opened it. She found papers, a fancy fountain pen, a letter opener, several old photographs of people she almost recognized.

  “Cassandra.”

  At the sound of her name, she turned around. Her godmother stood at the top of the stairs, looking just as she had all those years ago in New York.

  “My, you’ve grown.”

  “Am I dreaming?” Cassandra asked.

  “You are,” her godmother said. “But you’re also awake.”

  “I’ve seen this room before.”

  “I know. I’ve done a lot of writing at that desk. I’ve spent a lot of time staring out that window. But it’s not my room anymore, Cassandra. It’s my gift to you.”

  “I should’ve stayed in touch better. I can call you today.”

  “You can’t. But I’m here now, Cassandra.”

  “For the last time?”

  Her godmother smiled sadly. “Yes.”

  She looked at the desk, the window, the garden, then back at her godmother, who was no longer there.

  She stayed in the room a long time. There were old letters to read, journal entries from her godmother telling amazing stories about unbelievable things that were, in fact, quite believable now.

  She didn’t want to leave.

  But she did. She still had classes, and friends, and real world things to do. But anytime she wanted it, Cassandra needed only look properly at the space between two doors to find her private door and her hidden attic.

  13 January

  The city is a stark vertical landscape filled with rough textures, sharp contrasts, grit and shadow, and the ever present sense of mystery, magic, romance, and passion. And the rain on the city: nails dropping from an amorphous steely cloud, accentuating the city’s height.

  Atop one of the anonymous tall buildings, two warriors face each other, heedless of the elements, weapons ready – sticks for one, long thin rods expertly balanced and just flexible enough; a katana for the other, a heralded blade three centuries old, sharp enough to slice the raindrops in half.

  They are both well-trained, experienced, strong, fast, agile, smart, the best of their kind. In their minds, they already know how the fight will go. Through neither has moved, they have already fought. They know every strike, every parry, every evasion. They are intimately familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of their adversary – and of themselves. Neither weapon can be said to be better, nor either warrior. No factor remains unaccounted for – the shadows, the roof’s surface, the weather, the cacophonous city sounds rising around them, the struggles each overcame to reach this place at this time.

  They are not unseen. At least three recording devices, from different sources, will capture their battle. A half dozen faces hide behind curtains in windows across the alley. Two men, a mile away in different directions, point telescopes at the rooftop. There’s a helicopter not far off. And sinister, mystical things have been aroused, creatures of darkness and of light, gambling on the outcome – the stakes beyond the ability of mortals to pay.

  The rhythm of the city pulsates on the rooftop, the sounds of traffic and sirens and a hundred thousand televisions, stereos, the feet of dancers on a stage, the rumble of trains on their subterranean tracks. There is, perhaps, time for a breath, a complete inhalation and exhalation, before it begins. The warriors will clash until death ends it.

  In that heartbeat of time, a great many things happen across the city: a boy steals his first kiss, a baby comes screaming into the world, a chef serves the last meal of a prisoner condemned, a fashion designer climbs into a yellow taxi, lies are told, truths revealed, an old man alone in apartment exhales his last air. It all combines with the lifebeat of the city, that rhythm, which even now fuels the hearts of two warriors on a rooftop.

  There’s no bell to signal the start, no whistle or gunshot or flag waved or handkerchief dropped, yet the warriors move at precisely the same moment. They know every curve of the battle, every breath of it, beginning and end. For a thousand watching, the tension is intense, but the warriors are completely at ease, relaxed, loose, and ready. Nothing can distract them from their individual, identical intentions.

  That first sound of their weapons connecting is like thunder. The city rocks with it – and realms beyond, where the betting is closed and everyone, creatures of both light and dark, are about to lose. They’ve come close to see this final round. They’ve followed the exploits of each warrior on their various years-long quests. Some, in fact, have interfered; the warriors bear scars as proof.

  The first sound of their weapons clashing resonates long and deep, the echoes causing every other city sound to recede, the rain to pause, the cameras to flicker, the windows to crackle like spider webs.

  That first clash of their weapons shatters, albeit it briefly, the glass veil that separates this mortal ci
ty from those unmortal things. It’s only a flash, less than a heartbeat – less than a breath – less even than the crack of lightning that explodes in sympathy.

  The warriors slip off the rooftop, out of the rain, and into another realm. The greedy bored things that had watched most closely, surprised and overwhelmed and woefully unprepared. The manipulative little shits screech inhumanly as immortality is stolen from them by the impossible weapons of two impossible warriors meant – destined – to destroy each other.

  The warriors don’t get a lot of time in the other world before their own pulls them back, but they do a lot of damage, they spill a lot of blood, they send a powerful message: Do not meddle in mortal affairs. The humans may be made of weak flesh and brittle bone, but they can be devious and dangerous and deadly, even facing things that cannot die. Do not meddle in mortal affairs, or risk the truth of your own mortality.

  In higher realms still, things even greater notice – and smile.

  14 January

  The fog came in ahead of the morning sun, just as the prophecy foretold, but only a handful of people knew about such future prospecting. The strong, solid, most likely scenarios were always kept locked away in underground bunkers, hidden libraries, or terribly well-guarded fortresses. But Mr. Jones understood immediately. He had been waiting, counting down the days, anxious and excited and even a little bit giddy. He had read the signs, such that they