Toys In The Attic

by S.A. Meyer

The Attic By S.A. Meyer

  If you asked the neighbors, they would all say the same thing about Mr. Billy Arden.

  "Such a nice old man."

  "Poor thing; all alone since his wife died."

  While it was true that he was alone, Billy was far from lonely. He had plenty of memories to fill up his days. He'd sit on his recliner or, weather permitting, in his garden reliving his glory days in his mind. He could analyze a single moment for hours, focusing on every minute detail from the smells in the air to the feelings against his skin.

  He kept his favorites hidden in a secret box in his mind; a beautiful cedar steamer trunk with buckles and latches much like the one he had inherited from his mother.

  Those were his most sacred of memories, the ones he never shared with another soul, not even his dear Peggy while she'd been alive. While she had been a kind and understanding woman, a man still had to have his secrets. He would take them to his grave, which was coming sooner rather than later.

  Billy was under no delusions; he knew that he was in the final years of his life. His body didn't work the way it used to between his heart problems, cancer laying claim to one of his lungs, and just general old age. Billy had a running joke with his doctor that they were called the Golden years because of the stains left in his underwear.

  Billy was at least grateful that his mind was still as sharp as a tack.

  He had been enjoying a late lunch in front of the television, a deplorable habit he'd picked up after Peggy's passing. Eating alone was hard enough, no conversation except that between the dishes. Having noise from the television made it easier to cope.

  The weatherman was currently tracking a small cluster of clouds that was due to drop several inches of snow. Snow was a rare sight this far south. If there was even a whisper of the white stuff, it was deemed worthy of extra air time. The fact that they interrupted a report of confirmed snow made Billy at once alert.

  The breaking news signal flashed across the screen before it cut away to reveal a conservatively dressed woman sitting at a news desk. She gazed into the camera, a forlorn expression on her face as she began to speak.

  "An update on the body found last month in Greenview Hollow. Police have now confirmed the identity as that of seven year old Heather Collins who went missing nearly fifty years ago." A picture covered the screen as the reporter continued speaking as a voice over, but Billy wasn't listening. His attention was stolen by the grainy color photograph that was typical of the late sixties. He fixated on the little girl's face; sweet, darling little Heather.

  Her mousey brown hair was drawn into twin pigtails that spilled over her shoulders and down the sides of her lithe body. Brown eyes sparkled with childhood mischief from underneath thick lashes. Her mouth was open in a permanent grin to reveal two missing teeth; teeth that would never grow in. She was wearing a simple blue dress that had been fashionable among girls her age at the time. Clutched in her arms was a pristine stuffed white rabbit with a pair of long floppy ears.

  It had been big news back in the day. Pretty young thing snatched while walking home from school. In those days a missing child meant that they'd wandered too far from home. It was terrifying and unknown that someone could take a child away from their parents.

  Police scoured the area, asking anyone if they'd seen a stranger in the neighborhood. It was determined fairly quickly that it must've been some roaming vagrant, some monster from outside of town. The idea that it could be a neighbor wasn't even brought up.

  Years passed and the case fell cold. Billy supposed that with the discovery of her body, the investigation would resume. He wondered if there was any chance of solving it. Technology was much more advanced nowadays. On the other hand, so much time had passed it seemed almost impossible.

  He gently pushed away his TV tray and slowly stood.

  "Heather Collins." He spoke softly, tasting her name on his tongue for the first time in years. He repeated it several more times, slowly so as to caress every letter with his lips.

  He had to be cautious as he ascended the stairs to the attic, gripping the railing tight to avoid falling. He could hardly feel the cold nip of the attic air, the result of a cheap insolating job some twenty odd years prior. Hot adrenaline pumped through his veins as his heart pounded in his chest. It was a slow and tedious journey up the stairs and through the obstacle course of Christmas decorations and his late wife's belongings. It was worth it all the moment his eyes settled on the old trunk tucked away in its own corner of the attic.

  The very trunk his mother had given to him before she died, identical to the one in his mind where he kept his happiest memories. He hadn't visited it in many years, the stairs getting more perilous as his years added up. He was too weak to bring the heavy thing down the stairs on his own and asking for help would just bring about unwanted questions.

  No, it was better for it to remain in the attic.

  But today was a special day. Heather Collins was returning home. It was time to celebrate.

  He sat on the floor in front of the trunk, nearly falling over in his excitement. Running his hands over the top disturbed the thick layer of dust that lay there. Billy smiled to himself and hummed.

  Arthritis in his fingers made undoing all of the latches and buckles more complicated than it used to be. He took his time, his smile growing as he managed to open the lid.

  It was only pure luck that no one had discovered his secret trove over the years. If any curious person had stumbled upon it there would've been questions.

  There was no reason for a childless couple to have a box full of toys in their attic.

  Gazing down into the musty trunk, his eyes ghosted over the prizes he'd collected over the years.

  Several army men showed the evolution of the soldier from the last five decades. Frayed jump ropes with worn handles were folded with the care that he never had for Christmas lights. There were a few balls, once round and colorful now faded and deflated. Several dolls and stuffed animals gazed up at him, all showing varying degrees of love. He carefully pushed aside each toy, each memory, until he came to the one he was searching for.

  The rabbit wasn't white anymore, more of an off white with a yellow hue. Other than that, time had treated it well. It stared up at him with its button eyes, its mouth a neutral line unsmiling as was common in those days.

  "Heather," he moaned as he stroked the stiff fur. Pressing his nose to the artificial fuzz, he inhaled deeply, letting the memory consume him.

  She'd been his first. Growing up down the street, she'd trusted him as he led her into the woods. Her skin had smelled of wildflowers and chocolate, both of which he found in her school bag along with her stuffed bunny.

  He hadn't planned on killing her. She was crying, snot running down her nose coated her upper lip making it shine.

  "I'm telling!" She sobbed as he redressed himself. When he was done tucking his shirt into his pants he wrapped his hands around her throat and made it so she'd never speak again.

  Billy cleaned her face and straightened her clothes before placing her in the grave he dug for her. Except for the marks around her neck she looked like a sleeping little princess.

  Many other children had followed throughout the years though never again had he been so brazen to take a child like Heather. She'd been fire and spirit, a rose among the daisies and tulips that were his other children.

  Billy killed them all. It was the only way to be certain that they wouldn't share his secret.

  He would've continued, but after losing his lung the doctor warned against strenuous exercise. Billy didn't ask if strangling children was considered strenuous. He just assumed that it was. Add in increasing hospital visits and a decreasing libido, Billy began to feel that he wa
s simply too old to continue. He retired from his work and from his play.

  There were a lot of things Billy understood about kids.

  He could look at a group and see which child wouldn't be missed right away, giving them plenty of time to play.

  The words he needed to say to get them to follow him came to him naturally like a politician's lies. Sometimes his dog was lost, other times he had candy. Too often the only thing he needed to offer was a listening ear and a smile before they were accepting his hand.

  The only thing Billy never got was their attachment to their toys.

  Threatening to break off G.I. Joe's arm, or pop off Baby Doll Betty's head and the children would do whatever he wanted. As they begged and cried they would clutch their toys in their hand as if they would save them.

  While it was a bond he failed to understand, it was one he appreciated.

  Billy pressed his lips against the bunny's head. For the first time in many years he felt a stirring in his loins.

  Billy was so enraptured by his memory by his memory he didn't even notice the temperature begin to fall. A slow yet steady decline, so focused on his heat he barely felt the attic drop several more degrees.

  It wasn't until the cold pierced his bones that he realized that something was wrong. Unease crept over his skin, the same sticky fright as if he'd unsuspectingly walked through a fresh spider web.

  Billy closed the lid, leaning against it for