by C.G. Banks
*
Seemingly moments later light creeping in through the curtainless window in the front room roused her awake. She sat up on the couch, scratching her head and smacking her lips. She stumbled from the hallway into the bathroom, dug through the boxes lined on the counter until she found her toothbrush and washed the nastiness away. She looked into the bathroom mirror and wasn’t frightened by what she saw.
The events of yesterday resurfaced, and in the light of day her previous terror seemed an illogical phantom now, nothing more than some twisted cartoon. She thought back to the child’s playset, the dead lightbulb that had sent her into such terror, and was pleased to find the memory did little to plague her. In fact it seemed childish now, no more than the vestiges of a bad horror movie. “What the hell were you thinking?” she asked her reflection. She considered the footsteps in the hallway and actually laughed the idea away. Here she was, a grown woman, terrified of her own (mostly) empty attic, scared of toys, for chrisake. It was down right laughable, sad when you got right down to it. There was really no other explanation. Except, of course, crazy.
No, her mind had been playing tricks. Obviously she should have gone to bed earlier. She’d been doing too much, burning the candle at both ends. That was surely the only plausible explanation, because let’s face it, what was the alternative? Monsters in the attic? Jesus.
The boxes really had to be put away. Every journey, no matter how long, started with the first step and it past that time. She left the bathroom and chanced a look up at the attic door. No premonitions of doom drifted into her mind. It was just an attic, just a fucking attic, a place to store things you didn’t really need. At least not often. That was why the previous owner had left the playset up there. He hadn’t needed it and there was really no sense in taking things you didn’t need. She should have thought of that herself before she began packing every godforsaken thing she could lay her hands on. It would have afforded her much less work than the barrage that lay in front of her now. She thought about going up there again and the idea did little to frighten her. It was simply something that would have to be done, and the sooner the better. Okay. She pulled the attic door down, folded out the ladder, and grabbed one of the closest boxes. She brought it to her chin and started up.
The attic vent twirled lazily in its prescribed circle, the dead light hanging from its cord. She’d have to replace that today though she’d have to get some bulbs. But there was always the hardware store; she’d noticed one right off the highway. It would be less crowded than the Wal-Mart, but before she went she’d have to make a list of other things she’d need. All in good time.
She set the box down at the top of the ladder and continued up, glad her heart was steady. It was amazing what a little morning sunshine could do. There was nothing up here to scare anybody. It was just an old attic, everything was perfectly fine, even the tight shadowed edges where the roof came down to meet the attic floor. Nothing but insulation and two-by-fours. She chanced a look over the ductwork and found the little table. It was still covered with dust but the leading edge of terror it had invoked was gone. It was almost comical now, really it was, here in the light of a new day. She could hardly believe, or even conceive, the things she’d actually considered as she’d torn across the plywood toward the attic door in those frantic moments last night.
She pushed the box back a bit farther so she wouldn’t trip up here later. A corner of the box slid off the decking and clunked metallically down on something she couldn’t see. Huh? Now that was weird. She squinted in the half gloom and bent down, pushing the box back to see whatever had made the noise. And right then, underneath a caul of insulation, she saw it. A box. A metal box with a padlock attached. She pulled the strip of insulation away. Looked closer. The box had been anchored with large bolts to one of the rafters running parallel to the attic door. Secured with a big Master lock. A small box with a big lock. Fucking perplexing; first the playset and now the box. Why the hell would someone leave these things? A lock denoted secrecy. Perhaps the previous owner had kept important papers in here, passports or birth certificates, insurance proof. Perfectly normal, but up here? And then just why walk away and leave it? Now, unbidden, the creepiness returned, though hardly with the yesterday’s force. It was mostly curiosity, really, like finding a hidden treasure. Sure the box was screwed securely into the rafter but why the lock? Wouldn’t the owner have emptied the box and taken the lock with him? Obviously not. She edged closer to examine the metal box. She reached over and tugged on the lock, hoping it wasn’t locked but of course it was.
She rocked back on her haunches, panning the area while she thought about the hardware store. They sold bold cutters there, she felt sure that was what they called them. Wrench-looking things you could cut through steel grating, padlocks, whatever. It really wouldn’t be anything to pick one up with whatever else she was going to get. She looked back at the vexing lock, already feeling the itch of curiosity pulling her forward, begging her to look inside.
And with that she climbed out of the attic. Country hardware stores always opened early.
