by Lisa Tuttle
Feeling like a coward, but unable to force myself on, I grabbed hold of the white cloth and pulled it free.
I looked down at what I held in my hands. It was one of Sylvia’s nightgowns.
Somehow, I got down out of the attic. I stood in Sylvia’s room, my heart pounding hard enough to make me sick, and I watched her sleep, and I did not scream.
The pest control man agreed to come out that very day. I suspect he pegged me as an hysterical woman, but at least he was willing to drive out to the house with his full arsenal of traps and poisons and see what might live in the attic.
He was a big, beefy, red-faced, no-nonsense sort of man, and I wondered how his composure would stand up to the sight of that nest in the attic. He stared, stolid and faintly contemptuous, and I struggled to describe what I had seen.
‘What sort of thing would build such a nest? And in an attic? What could be living up there?’ I asked him.
He only shrugged. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say. I’ll have a look.’
I had roused Sylvia before his arrival. Now she stood by and said nothing as this solid, sensible man climbed into the attic. My nerves were singing; I couldn’t bear to be so close to her. Abruptly I turned and went away downstairs where I could sit and shake without having to explain myself. I had wadded up Sylvia’s nightgown and thrown it on the floor while she still slept. I had not been able to confront her with it, and she had not mentioned it to me.
When the man came down out of the attic his manner was unchanged and he gave his ponderous, practical report.
‘You do have mice, and spiders. An old house like this, with the fields so close, it stands to reason. You might want to get a cat. Good company they are, too, cats. I saw no sign of rats, so you can be easy on that. You want to get that roof fixed, of course, and clear up all that mess. I can put down poison and traps . . .’
‘I don’t care about mice,’ I said sharply. ‘What made that nest, that’s what I want to know. You’re not telling me it was built by mice?’
‘Stands to reason they’d nest there,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it does. But what built that huge nest in the first place?’
He looked a shade uncertain. ‘Maybe you’d like to come up and point it out to me. Maybe I don’t know which nest you mean. Maybe I missed it.’
‘You can’t possibly have missed it! It’s huge – I’ve never seen anything like it. Five feet tall, at least, and made of twigs and straw and mud and bits of old newspaper and – ’
‘You mean that heap of rubbish? Shocking the way it’s piled up, isn’t it? It’s because of that you’ve got the spiders and the wood-lice and everything.’
‘It’s not just a rubbish heap,’ I said patiently. ‘It’s a nest. The nest. If you’d looked at it properly you would have seen that it didn’t just grow, it was put together as a shelter, with an entranceway and everything. If you were doing your job, you should have seen that. You just left it?’
He gave me a blank, steady look. ‘It’s not my job to clean up other people’s rubbish. Not very pleasant sorting through it to see what might live there, but I poked my stick in and turned it over and stirred it around. That’s how I know about the mice and all. It’s no wonder you’ve got them, a mess like that. You need to get it cleaned up. Hire someone, if you don’t fancy tackling it yourself. Once you’ve got that lot cleared away and the roof fixed you won’t have any trouble.’
I recognised the sort of man he was. If he couldn’t understand something, then for him it did not exist. There was probably no way I could get him to see what I had seen. Well, it didn’t matter, and I agreed with his advice. ‘Could you recommend someone to clear it away for me?’
‘I do have a nephew who does the odd job,’ he said. ‘Since you ask.’
The nephew came out that same afternoon to do his work, as did a team of roof menders for a preliminary survey. Getting the roof mended took a full week and more. It could be done no faster, no matter how I stressed the need, no matter what bonuses I promised. Winter days were short. They told me they would do the best they could.
During this period, when the house was always full of workmen, Sylvia and I barely communicated. She went out, most days, and did not tell me where she went. But these were not like her previous disappearances, and so they did not worry me. I saw her go out through the front door every time, and saw her walk down the road and turn towards the village. She did not return until after dark, when the house was empty and still again. I saw those days as a precarious interval: once I had made the house safe there would be time to talk, opportunity to mend the rift that had come between us.
Finally it was done. The roof was fixed and the house was whole again. Sylvia and I sat in the warm front room that evening, each in an armchair with a book. I couldn’t concentrate on mine; I looked around, admiring the harmony of the room, the warm conjunction of colours and furnishings, all so carefully chosen.
Sylvia said, ‘You’re happy here.’
I smiled. ‘Of course. Aren’t you?’
She didn’t answer and I wished I hadn’t asked. ‘You will be,’ I said. ‘Give it time.’ I hesitated, and then added, very low, ‘I did it for you.’
‘I know how much this house means to you,’ Sylvia said. ‘And you’re happy here. This is your place. I wouldn’t expect you to give it up just because I . . . you wouldn’t have to pay me back, even though it was half my money.’
‘What are you talking about? ’
‘I mean if I was to go away.’
‘But why should you?’
She shrugged and shifted in her chair. ‘If I . . . stopped wanting to live here.’
‘Have you?’
‘If I was to get married. You wouldn’t want my husband to move in here with us?’
‘No, of course not.’ The idea made me tense. ‘But why talk about that now? It’s not likely to happen for years. Is it? There’s not someone now . . . someone you want to marry?’
She sighed and fidgeted and then suddenly glared at me. ‘No. There isn’t anyone I want to marry. But someday, maybe, I’ll meet a man I do want to marry. And then I’ll want to go away and live with him. That fantasy we had as children would never work, you know. We’re not going to marry two brothers and all live together in one house! Someday I’ll want a house of my own – ’
‘Then what’s this?’ I demanded. ‘This is your house. You can’t go on waiting for your life to start with your husband. You’re not a child, you’re grown up and you made the decision to come live here with me. This is our home; we have an equal responsibility for it. If you’re not happy here, then we can sell it and move somewhere else. We’re not trapped. Only a child would talk about leaving like that, as if the only choice you can see is between running away and staying. Just tell me what you want, and we’ll work together for it.’
‘Maybe I want something you can’t give me.’
‘Oh? And what’s that? Excitement? True love? What is it you want?’
‘I don’t know,’ she muttered, suddenly unable to meet my eyes.
‘Well, if you don’t know, I certainly don’t. You can’t go through your life expecting other people to solve your problems for you, and give you what you want, you know. You’ve got to accept responsibility for your own life at some point.’
‘I’m trying to,’ she said softly, staring into her lap.
‘Sylvia, please tell me about it. I’ll try to understand, but you must give me the chance. Don’t blame me too much – I was trying to help. I wanted to save you.’
She stared at me. ‘What are you talking about?’
I wanted to scrape that fake innocence off her face with a knife. I wanted to slap her, to hurt her into honesty. These lies, the unspoken words kept us apart. If she would only confess we could begin again, start clean.
‘The attic,’ I said, watching her
like a hawk. I cleared my throat and began again. ‘Now that the roof has been fixed, and all that garbage cleared out, we could use the attic as another room. You could buy some paints and make it your studio.’
‘Why do you keep going on about that?’ she cried.
‘Going on about what?’
‘About my painting! As if I did!’
‘You used to. You were very good.’
‘I never did.’
‘Now, Sylvia, you know – ’
‘All I ever did was take an art class when I was fourteen. Because I had to do something, everyone did, and if I didn’t find something of my own I’d have had to take dancing classes with you. That’s all it ever was.’
I’d let her evade the real issue long enough. ‘But what about the attic?’
She threw herself out of her chair. ‘Oh, do what you like with it! I don’t care. Just don’t fool yourself that you’re doing it for me.’ She was on her way out of the room as she spoke.
‘Sylvia, wait, can’t we talk?’
‘No, I don’t think we can.’ She didn’t look back.
Later that night, after I had gone to bed, I heard Sylvia moving around restlessly in her room. Then I heard the soft, unmistakable clatter of the attic door.
I held my breath. She was safe; I knew she was safe. The attic was clean and bare and utterly empty, and the roof was intact. But I had to know what she was doing up there. Since she wouldn’t tell me, I would have to find out for myself. I rose from my bed and went onto the landing, where I could hear.
I heard her footsteps, light and unshod, making the softest of sounds against the wood floor. She was walking back and forth. Pacing. First slowly, then more quickly, almost in a frenzy. She began to cry: I heard her ragged, sobbing exhalations. She said something – perhaps called out a name – but I could hear only the sounds, not the sense of them. The cold air on the landing made me shiver, but I worried more about Sylvia, barefoot and in her thin nightdress in the unheated attic. I longed to go and comfort her, but I knew she would reject me. She needed time to adjust, time to accept what I had done for her. Finally I went back to bed, leaving her to her lonely sorrow.
It was mid-morning when I awoke, and the room was filled with sunlight. My heart lifted with pleasure. It would be a beautiful day for a long drive in the car. There was a ruined castle not far away that Sylvia would love. We could take a picnic lunch with us.
When I had dressed I went to her room and flung open the door. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead!’
The words rang embarrassingly in the empty room. I saw that the bed had not been slept in.
My heart thudded sickeningly and I tasted something bitter. If, after all my care –
Then I had a sudden, sane vision of Sylvia, exhausted and sleeping alone on the floor of the attic, worn out with crying. I went up to fetch her.
But the attic was empty. Or nearly. Something glittered on the bare boards and I saw that it was Sylvia’s ring, her half of the pair our mother had left us. I knew how much Sylvia had cherished it. She would never have lost it, never left it behind carelessly. But there it was, and Sylvia was gone.
I searched the house and found that she had taken away a bag of clothes. She had left no note.
The day passed and faded into night, but Sylvia did not return or call. Had she been seduced away, kidnapped? She hadn’t said anything about leaving. She must mean to come back, she must.
As the days blended one into the other in the still, silent house, I asked myself again and again why she had gone. I asked myself how I could have prevented it, and I found a hard answer. By trying to keep her, I had forced her to go. I had been too severe, too self-centered. I had held her too tightly, refusing to let her have any life of her own. She was a woman, not a child, and her rebellion was natural. I had driven her away.
‘Maybe I want something you can’t give me,’ she had said. But what she wanted was so horrible! The memory of that dark, filthy den in the attic, her discarded nightgown shimmering whitely against it, still sent a shudder through me. I would not, could not, follow her there. Our childhood fantasy of marrying brothers had never seemed more impossible.
But why couldn’t we both have what we wanted? Why did I have to live without her? Understanding more now, I was willing to give more, even to share her, if she would only come back. I would no longer try to change or bind her; I would leave the attic, and her life up there, strictly alone. She could bring her husband, or whatever he was, to the house and I would not interfere. If only I could tell her so. If only she would give me another chance.
One day I went up to the attic with the toolkit and set to work on the roof. The hammer did no good at all, and I broke my knife and screwdriver against it. Finally I went down to the village and bought an axe. I was soaking with sweat and rain and my hands were bleeding before I was through, but I got it done at last. The new hole was even bigger than the old; quite big enough for anything to get through. I stuck my head out, scaring off a couple of rooks who had come to examine my work, and I looked around at the heavy grey sky and the bare trees, searching for something large and black flapping on the horizon. I saw nothing like that. The rain ran into my eyes and I retreated.
We hadn’t been in the house long enough to acquire much in the way of rubbish, but I took the old newspapers and magazines we’d been saving to recycle, and the bag of garbage from the kitchen, and carried it all up to the attic. Working fast in the gathering dark and cold rain, I raked up a sackful of dead leaves and twigs from the garden, and picked up broken branches from beneath the trees. Still it wasn’t enough, so I took the axe to a couple of chairs, tore the stuffing out of my pillows, and scissored up a few old clothes.
It’s a start, anyway. A sign of my goodwill. All I can do now is wait. And so I do, lying in Sylvia’s bed every night, listening for noises from above.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Tuttle is an award-winning author of science fiction, fantasy and horror. Her first novel, written in collaboration with George R.R. Martin, Windhaven, has been in print since 1981, and was adapted by her as a graphic novel. Her most recent novels are part of a detective series with supernatural elements, set in 1890s England: The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist and the Psychic Thief and The Curious Affair of the Witch at Wayside Cross. Born and raised in Texas, she has lived in Scotland since 1990.
ABOUT THE COVER
Cover: The cover reproduces the original cover painting by Nick Bantock from the 1986 Sphere paperback edition.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
‘Bug House’, ‘Dollburger’, ‘Treading the Maze’, ‘The Memory of Wood’, ‘The Other Mother’, ‘The Horse Lord’, and ‘The Nest’ were first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. ‘Flying to Byzantium’ and ‘A Friend in Need’ were first published in The Twilight Zone Magazine. ‘Community Property’ first appeared in Shayol. ‘Need’ was first published by Doubleday in Shadows 4 (1981). ‘Sun City’ was first published by Pan Books in New Terrors (1980). ‘Stranger in the House’ was first published by New American Library in Clarion II (1972).
