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Originally published in the anthology, DeathMongers : Where The Light Dies

She hadn’t lived in the house long enough to comfortably say that it was just one of the normal noises, the sound of the house settling or maybe even the scampering of a rodent. These were the distinct sounds of footsteps joined with the corresponding groans from floorboards. Footsteps that sounded like someone pacing back and forth. In the attic.

She played out the 911 call in her head, imagined the look on the faces of the officers who showed up to “save” her; predicted the grating, condescending laughter from Brian when he got home from his graveyard shift. It was probably better to just deal with it herself. After all, what could it be really? It wasn’t like a burglar, having been foiled by the unlocked doors and open windows would have scaled up the walls to come in through the attic.

Still, she found herself taking Brian’s baseball bat out of the hall closet and hefting it high, ready to swing for the fences as she climbed the stairs. The trap door going up into the attic hung slightly open. Brian must have been up there and not closed it all the way. She reached up and noticed that her hand was trembling as she took hold of the chain and yanked down.

She had been preparing herself for something to jump down at her as the ladder descended on its track but all she was greeted with was the ill omens of smothering darkness.

The first step onto the ladder made the wood crack so loudly, she yelled out and jumped back down to the hall floor. As she leapt, the bat caught on the light fixture, causing her to drop it clattering to the floor. Her breath was coming in gasps as she reclaimed the bat and resumed her way up the ladder. It was shortly before reaching the top that she realized her impending dilemma. In order to push herself up from the ladder, she would have to set the bat aside for just a second.

As she passed her head up through the opening, a cold breath of drafty air washed over her. Seeing nothing around in any direction, she set the bat aside and scrambled up the last few steps. Her knee struck something solid as she stood up and she looked down just in time to see the bat about to topple down through the trapdoor. She grabbed it and raised it again, turning slowly around several times, ready to strike. All she could make out from the illumination of the street lights creeping in was the outline of boxes and unused luggage.

She had hoped to find an open window or a shattered glass frame that would have allowed access for a cat or squirrel. The windows were undisturbed. She had almost declared the attic safe, ready to go back to the comfort of the sofa when she heard the sound. It came from the far corner, underneath one of the windows and behind the largest stack of boxes. When she heard it, her skin prickled and a frigid coldness washed through her, starting at her center and radiating out from within.

It was the sound of a baby crying.

She made her way along the row of stacked boxes, running one hand along the wall of cardboard in order to keep her bearings and balance. At the end of the row, she stuck her head around the corner, needing every bit of discipline and control she possessed just to keep her eyes open.

There was nothing there.

Just bare floorboards illuminated in the pale gray-scale of night. The sound of the crying went on however, this time now from the other side of the room. She gripped the bat tighter, ignoring the protests from her hands and wrists and walked over, this time looking behind a refrigerator box sitting on top of an unused treadmill.

The crying cut out suddenly and there was just enough light for her to make out the dark mass of an object on the floor, stirring as if waking from a deep sleep. She drew in a sharp breath, scrambled her fingers to keep her grip on the bat and with a sudden rush of adrenaline, she stepped forward and brought it down as hard as she could.

The shaft impacted a thick pile of towels. There was now no sign of movement but for good measure, she brought the bat up and struck the towels on the floor several more times. Spent, she stumbled back and ran into something solid behind her. It was the feel of a much taller man and that was followed by the sensation of a hand caressing the small of her back. She spun around on her heels and swung again, striking not an assailant, but the antique coat rack which was now sprawling back onto the floor.

As her brain caught up with what she had just done, a hand dropped down onto her shoulder squeezing so hard that she thought she heard bones cracking. She screamed and swung out with a hand this time, meaning to shove the thing away from her, squeezing her eyes shut as she wailed loudly. Her feeble attack simply carried her forward and through open space where she tripped over the winter glove that had fallen first onto her shoulder and then to the floor.

Sudden, sharp pain from her stomach made her drop to one knee and she felt hot moisture as she clutched at her mid-section. She lifted her hand to her face and even in the darkness could recognize blood streaked across her palm and fingers. The cramping pain made it impossible to stand and it was difficult to breathe. A hand came down on the back of her neck and pulled her up to her feet. She looked up into the face of the shadowy figure before her and finally started to see.

Light faded down to darkness and she heard a voice. One voice, then several, faint at first but slowly growing stronger, as if she herself was drawing closer. The voices sounded familiar and before long she heard words.

“… broke into the house…”

“… stabbed…”

“… in the attic…”

She heard the sound of the baby crying again and as the light began to return, she saw the child, cradled in its mother’s arms, trying to soothe it into respectful silence. The pain from her stomach rose again as she looked around at the faces of her friends, her family. The figure in the attic that never fully clarified in her head, the sharp pain as she remembered the blade drawing back out of her, dropping down into a deep abyss.

She had been left up there for dead.

The decor of the room solidified around her. She looked at the mourners either in their seats or milling around the table which was covered in pictures. Like a blanket, she felt the love flowing from them and through her as she turned around for the first time to face the image of her own body in the casket for the funeral that was her own.

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author’s note : the image for this story was used with permission. Click here to view the artist’s work as well as the original picture.

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