Dead Echo

by C.G. Banks

  *

  She pulled into her driveway five minutes later, back to herself, she thought. She parked in the carport and chanced a look in the rearview mirror. Yes, her color was back and she didn’t look harried or harassed in any way. That was good. More than she could honestly ask for at this point. She killed the engine and opened the door, touching the button that let go the trunk. Then she got out and walked around to the back of her car. There they were, the three bags. In the bright sunshine the fear she’d felt at the hardware store was a long way gone but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be back for consideration later. But again, nothing she could do about it. She grabbed the first bag and walked over to the carport door, resting the bag on her hip as she fiddled the key into the lock. It let go and she pushed the door open. She went inside and set the bag on the dining room table, went out and grabbed the other two, and then soundlessly began the search. She found the bolt cutter in the second bag, of course right there at the very bottom. She picked it up and gave it a good look. Squeezed the handle and watched the black blades come together with sinister precision. Then, without another thought, she stood up and made her way into the hall.

  She paused a moment in the doorway, eyeing the door to the attic. Such a little thing, really, no more than a hole cut in the ceiling. But the implications. What implications? the persistence voice asked seductively. She chose not to cruise too far down that highway and took a tentative step forward. No time like the present. She reached up and grabbed the pull-string, heaved it down. It was dark up there, no surprise, but not so bad as it was the night before. She heard the attic vent with its incessant whirling and unfolded the ladder until it was flat on the floor. She tucked one leg of the bolt cutter into her back pocket and started up.

  First things first, she thought. Take this a step at a time and it wouldn’t seem so unusual…so threatening, she had to grudgingly admit. She gained the attic floor and stoop-walked over to the hanging light bulb. She unscrewed the used bulb and screwed in the one she’d carried with her from the kitchen, careful not to look directly at it when it fired to life. Suddenly the attic was suffused with the glow. There was the little table, all laid out for a child’s tea party. There was the box she’d dragged up last night, all the little hidden corners of the attic now safely illuminated. For a moment she felt genuine shame at her terror, safe now in the daylight with the new bulb radiating added confidence. Then she looked over in the direction of the box and the weird feeling returned, the ominous presence, like the one she got anytime she watched the film of the Kennedy assassination. That feeling of impending doom; that feeling of knowing what the future held and being helpless to do anything whatsoever about it. Because, of course, time ran about its course without the slightest concern for human wants or fears. Like a train coming into town at full speed.

  She bent down and pulled the bolt cutter out of her pocket, pushed the cardboard box farther into the insulation so that she’d have a clear go at the metal one. And there it was. Of course it would be there, the little tide-box, always there but concealed. Well, the tide was out now and there was no better time than the present. She bent down and blew the dust away from its surface, pushed a small flake of insulation away so she could get a better idea of its dimensions though the reality didn’t change her expectations. Indeed, it was bolted securely to the cross beam, flat down against the sheet rock that formed the ceiling below. The Master lock with its spin dial hanging from the side eyes. She looked at the cutter and considered the strength of the lock. Just off hand she thought Cat had probably chosen one adequate enough for the job, and just for a fleeting moment she wished he hadn’t. That way she could have sighed first, then cursed, and left this whole goddamn thing for later. When she felt stronger. But another part of her, a harder part, was glad she could get this damn thing finished.

  This sticking point.

  She took the bolt cutter and placed it against the metal loop that secured the lock to the box. Right, a perfect fit, almost as if Cat had known exactly what she was going to do with it. She grasped both handles and squeezed down. Nothing. She let go and examined the damage. A little nick on the side, probably another one on the other she couldn’t see. But still, not much. She wiped her sleeve across her brow and noticed how badly she was sweating. And the heat was not even that bad. “Fuck it,” she spat and reapplied herself to the task, squeezing this time until the veins and cords in her forearms stood out like blue lines on a road map. And then, just at the moment when she felt she could give no more, there was a loud, metallic snap and the lock pitched violently away from the pressure point. Patsy, half surprised, half fearful of her own strength, sat back on her haunches and surveyed what she’d done.

  The Master lock was history, cut cleanly in two in sharp chisel edges. All she’d have to do was reached down and flip it away. Do it, the damned voice whispered maliciously. This is what you came for. She tried to ignore its impetus by slowly placing the cutter down on the plywood flooring. Her heart was racing again but she was far past the point of backing down now. She was fixing to find out exactly what was in that motherfucking box.

  She reached down and plucked the lock out of the eye. Now the box was available for whomever, come what may. All she had to do was---

  She ripped the cover off, expecting anything, and finding…scratched notes, old newspaper clippings. She reached inside and pulled them out. They were not banded together and her first dig got most but not all. She held what she had and quickly leafed through, surprised at the dates and the disparity in color of the various documents. After another few minutes of perusal she was doubly surprised by their content. Or rather…their theme.

  There was murder here, death by accident, odd little clips that seemed to have nothing to do with anything else in here. But a blackness leaked from the words like oil from an old car, and God knew she’d owned (or at least driven) plenty of those in her day. A catalogue of atrocity and murder. And as she flipped through them she wondered (fearful of the answer) just what the hell they were doing here, locked away in this box in the attic of her new house?

  Why they’d been left, as if for her to find?

  But, of course, that was ridiculous. The realtor had told her the house hadn’t been lived in for six months; something about the owner getting a new job somewhere in the northern part of the state. There was no way this person could have known who would buy the house, or for that matter, who was even looking at it. She studied the contents a little more. Very damn creepy, regardless, and why would someone collect crap like this anyway? Why not stamps or blue chip stocks or something of worth? Not this shit.

  And then the voice came again: What makes you think they’re worthless? and she did shiver this time in the warmth of the attic. She bit her lip and reached into the box to get the rest of the stuff. Then she went slowly and carefully down the attic ladder to study her find in more depth at the kitchen table, forgetting about the light or even the withdrawn attic ladder drawing away her air conditioning.

  Once at the table she went about sorting the papers, trying to find some act of reason for collecting them. First she separated the notes from the newspaper clippings. It didn’t take long and she found there were far more of the latter than the former. Then, since the notes were not dated, she pushed them off to the side and concentrated on the clippings. Some were original, others copied. All of them had dates, the ones not actually printed on the paper were scrawled in a large hand in the margins. And it didn’t take long for her to see the history represented here. Some of the yellowed originals went all the way back to the 1930s. The older, photostatted copies went back much further. There was one from 1867, several others dating not much later. But the theme she’d spotted in the attic was true enough. Death, accidental and otherwise. Atrocities. And there were maps, aerial and topographical. It didn’t take long to recognize the contours, the landmarks. The real estate lady had shown her a copy of the neighborhood taken from an airplane on the day she’d first
seen the house. They were the same. Doubtless, they were the same if you disregarded former tree lines and such. She fought through another chill as she continued leafing through the documents. There were many; whoever had saved them had damn near needed a bigger box. But of course he was gone now and these things were hers.

  She pushed the newspaper clippings off to the side. She’d have to sort them by date and some of the stories were multiple pages. That would come later. Right now she wanted to get a look at the handwritten notes. And oddly, considering the obvious dedication with which the man had collected the dates for the clippings, the notes had none whatsoever. Many were simply numbers and addresses followed by a colon. But as she read them over she found many ringing bells in her head. And of course they should. She’d not moved into the neighborhood blind. She driven its streets, trying to taste the flavor of the people who lived here, and as she’d driven she noticed street names.

  These names.

  She put her finger on the one labeled 1 and looked past the colon. Eighteen year old girl shot to death by her boyfriend, 2 a.m. one Saturday night. Not at home, but at the boyfriend’s. Number 2 was a quick account of a 21 year old man’s drug overdose. This one struck her immediately because the address was her street, probably no more than two or three houses down from her address, same side. Number 12: a 25 year old man found dead at the end of Jasper Street, his head caved in by a culvert and his hopped-up dirt bike resting right alongside. Then others not so serious: a game room fire on Pepper Ave, a multitude of missing dogs seemingly from all over the neighborhood, repeated listings of night work at some power plant in the woods. Still other oblique references to particular houses for no obvious reasons, just asterisks beside them, some circled, some not.

  A gust of wind rattled the storm door in its casing and she jerked upright, pulled back to the present. She saw her hands were shaking, her breath coming short and fast. She looked out the kitchen window and saw the bright day, seemingly at odds with the findings she had here in front of her. For a moment she thought of going on, delving deeper into this treasure chest of fear, but her hands refused to oblige. Okay, she thought. Enough is enough. At least for now. She raked all the documents into a pile, careful to keep the written notes separated from the clippings, and placed them back into the box. Despite her curiosity, despite the urge to continue, she knew she must not. There was always later, even though as she thought this, her mind went back to the accident, its immediacy. The finality of any moment in time.

  She picked up the papers and stood, taking them with her as she left the kitchen and walked into the hallway. The attic door was open, just as she’d left it, the light still on up there. She wished she’d turned it off before coming down but there was nothing to be done about it. She squeezed around the ladder and turned into her bedroom. For a moment she considered hiding the papers under her bed, but settled upon placing them in a bundle upon the highest shelf in the back of the closet. Somehow it felt safer there. Why, she could not say.

  Then, sucking up her courage she again ascended the ladder and pulled the string to the light. She willed herself to come back down slowly, confidently. Folded the ladder back to its place and pushed the attic door closed.