“So I see. You and your sister, and your brother, Victor?”
“How’d you know his name?”
He didn’t answer. “You got a nice family, Noelle,” he said. He was speaking softly today, because the door was so close.
Noelle nodded. She wondered if the man was hot, because his forehead was full of sweat, and it was dripping down his face. Too bad there was no air-conditioning in the attic.
“You’re taking real good care of me. Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re a whole lot nicer than the last family I stayed with.”
“Were they mean?”
“Very mean,” Peter said. “Very.”
“What did they do?”
“You would be shocked,” Peter said.
“Not-uh,” Noelle said, feeling certain “shocked” must mean the same thing as “scared,” which she definitely would not be.
“Well . . .” He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Noelle stared up, too. She saw the beams crisscrossing above her, how the ceiling jutted upward into sharp points. “First of all, one of them hit me. Right in my face. I got a bruise, see?”
He turned his face sideways so Noelle could see better. Sure enough, she saw a dark mark beneath his eye. It was like the mark she’d had on her forehead when she crashed on Victor’s bicycle, that time she got stitches. It looked like it hurt.
“Why did they do that?”
“Because they were scared,” Peter said. “What did I tell you? It ruins everything when people are scared. You’re just making small talk, keeping them company, looking out for things, and then they go and hit you. That’s not very nice, is it?”
“No,” Noelle said.
“I didn’t think so either, Noelle.”
“Did you hit them back?”
“That I did,” Peter said. “I didn’t want to, but with the position they put me in, well, that changed everything. Anyway, they said they were sorry. It took a little time, but they apologized just like they should.”
Through the closed door below, Noelle heard Victor calling. She couldn’t understand everything he was saying through the door, but she heard her name.
“That’s you, little lady,” Peter said.
“I’ll be back,” Noelle promised.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not today. They’ll think it’s funny, you poking around up here. I’ll be fine. Come back and see me again tomorrow. And remember, keep quiet.”
Tomorrow was so far away! Tomorrow was the last day before Daddy would come home. Monday, Tuesday, then Wednesday. Noelle started to argue, but Peter was holding his gaze steady, so she knew he wouldn’t change his mind, and he would think she was a baby if she started to cry.
“Can I see what’s behind your back?” she whispered.
Victor called her again, this time closer to the attic door. He was saying Mommy wanted her, and she’d better come out.
“Go on, Noelle,” Peter said. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His voice, like his clean-shaven face, wasn’t anything like it had been before.
Tuesday, for Noelle, was torture. She got up very early, before the sun was even shining very bright, but Mommy was up before her and wanted to braid her hair. That took all of her extra morning time. After school, Mommy took them to the mall because Victor needed a uniform for his band concert. Then, they shopped for groceries. Noelle got in trouble for being irritable; she sucked her teeth at her mother at the grocery store. It was almost time for dinner by the time they got home.
“Where are you going?” Mommy said from the kitchen when she saw Noelle climbing upstairs. “Not that attic. Come back down here and help Sierra and Victor set the table.”
Noelle wanted to scream and stamp her feet like she used to when she was younger, but she didn’t. Mommy wouldn’t like that, and then maybe she wouldn’t be able to see Peter at all.
Victor, who was watching TV in the family room instead of helping like he was supposed to, flipped from Tom and Jerry to the six o’clock news. The volume was too loud. “On Sunday, when a nine-year-old Magnolia Park boy and his mother were slain, and his father. . .”
“Mom, Victor isn’t setting the table!” Sierra complained.
“Victor . . .”
Victor ignored Sierra. “They’re talking about it, Mom!” Victor called into the kitchen.
“So? You still have to help us,” Sierra said.
When their mother came out of the kitchen, Noelle couldn’t tell from her face whether or not she was mad; she walked straight to the family room and stood beside Victor to stare at the television set. Her pinky was hooked to the side of her mouth. On the screen, between where her mother and Victor stood, Noelle saw part of a cartoon drawing of a man with long hair and a beard.
“. . . any information, please contact the police . . .”
“No, Noelle,” Sierra corrected her, tugging a fork out of her hand. “Forks go on the other side. You’re not paying attention.”
“. . . considered mentally disturbed and extremely dangerous . . .”
“What’s men-tally dis-turbed?” Noelle asked Sierra.
“You,” Sierra said, probably because she didn’t know herself.
Mom walked over to the television set and turned it off. She sighed, wiping her hands on the dish towel she was carrying. “I’m glad your father’s coming back tomorrow,” she said. “And here we thought moving to Magnolia Park would be safer than the city.”
“Don’t worry, Mommy, there’s—” Noelle began, and she had to stop herself from saying “a man in the house,” because she remembered her promise at the very last second. But Noelle also felt bad, because she wondered for the first time if her mother would be mad at her for keeping a secret, especially a secret about someone smoking upstairs, because she had allergies. What if Peter’s cigarette smoke got in the air and made her mother’s eyes start watering? Noelle hadn’t considered that before.
“Let’s just eat. No more talk about the Mangler,” her mother said.
Noelle didn’t ask again what a mangler was. Instead, she said, “Mommy, can I play in the attic after dinner?”
“Maybe for a little while, sweetheart, before it gets dark.”
And Noelle was glad, but not as happy as she’d felt yesterday, or even when she’d first come running back into the house full of anticipation to see Peter. She didn’t hurry as she ate her food. She wished Wednesday would hurry up and come.
“I’ve been waiting for you, little lady,” Peter said. He was stretched out across a sleeping bag, his hands folded behind his head. Noelle wondered where he’d found the sleeping bag, until she saw the camping boxes thrown to the side, with Styrofoam and cardboard in the middle of the floor. It was a mess. She also noticed a box of crackers, two bags of potato chips and empty cans of tuna on the floor. Peter must have gotten this food from the pantry for himself, while they were gone. Noelle was surprised Mommy hadn’t noticed. Mommy wouldn’t like someone taking all their food.
“It’s almost Wednesday,” Noelle said.
“Absolutely.”
“That’s when my daddy comes home and the wish is over.”
Peter grinned. When he sat up, Noelle noticed he didn’t smell very good. Why didn’t he take a bath while they were gone, too? She stepped away from him.
“You took our food,” she said.
“Got hungry, little lady. Hope you don’t mind.”
Was that the same as saying he was sorry? Noelle wasn’t sure.
“And you have to fix the window,” she reminded him.
This time, Peter laughed; it was a laugh she didn’t like, one similar to Victor’s laugh when he was making fun of her. In fact, Peter was laughing as though she’d just told him a joke. He stood up, stretching out his long legs and reaching his arms high over his head. He could almost touch the ceiling, he was so tall.
“Got to fix the window. That’s like the other house—the broken window. That’s what woke everybody up. I
t was early, see. I was just stopping in to look things over, get some food. Seems like you can never get enough food, you know? You always need more. But I fixed the window, all right, Noelle.”
Suddenly, Noelle felt something twisting inside her stomach, something that was making all of her skin feel thin and tingly. Right beside the empty tuna-fish tin nearest her feet, she saw three spiders. Three. Squashed, all of them. Dead. Their long, black legs were crushed and bent.
Before she knew it, there were tears in her eyes.
“What you lookin’ at, Noelle?” Peter asked.
Noelle didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. Her mind was wrapped tight, and she felt as though she wouldn’t be able to stand up with her knees straight for one more minute.
“Aw . . . Noelle . . .” Peter said softly, bending down to try to see her face better. He shook his head. “Noelle, Noelle . . . Thought you were going to help keep an angel in the attic. Angels, remember? No devils. I don’t like to see you cry like that.”
Noelle pointed at the floor.
“What? Tuna fish?” he said.
“You killed the spiders,” she said. Her voice was shaking.
This man had come in the house and broken the window. And he’d eaten their food without asking first. And then he’d stepped on the spiders—her spiders—and killed them in the attic, where they were allowed to live. Daddy didn’t even put bug spray in the attic. This was their place to be safe.
“You bet I did. Those big, creepy—”
“You shouldn’t kill things,” Noelle said. “You’re not supposed to do that. They didn’t hurt anybody.” She’d never talked to a grown-up this way, in this big, bossy voice, but she couldn’t help it. Besides, Peter wasn’t a regular grown-up. He wasn’t like any other grown-up she knew.
Peter’s mouth was open, but he wasn’t grinning or laughing anymore. He looked down at the spiders, then back up at Noelle. “Well, hell, little lady, I thought they were poisonous. You got to kill something first before it kills you. Right?”
Noelle didn’t answer Peter. It was too late to explain to him what Daddy had said about these spiders, that they were just big and ugly to most people, but they were probably more scared of people than people were of spiders. And three of them were gone now. Noelle wondered if it had hurt when Peter’s foot crunched down on them.
“My daddy will be here tomorrow. He’s coming real early. He’s taking me to school.” This was a lie, only one of several Noelle had told in the past couple of days, because she knew very well that her father wouldn’t be home until dinnertime. But Noelle didn’t feel bad about lying to Peter because it wasn’t the same as lying to her mother. It wasn’t the same at all. “So you hafta go tonight, before he gets here. It’s almost dark. You hafta go.”
Peter leaned down and turned his head to look at her, as if he could see all the way through her like an X-ray machine. Noelle had seen X-ray pictures in the hospital. Peter was quiet for a long time. Then, he said, “You scared of me, Noelle?”
“No,” Noelle said, because she wasn’t. “But it’s time for you to go now. ’Cause I say so.”
With a sigh, Peter straightened up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m real sorry about those spiders, Noelle.” And he really did sound sorry.
“Okay,” Noelle said. “Good-bye. You have to go.” Noelle didn’t stay to hear Peter say good-bye back, or to see if he was going to clean up the mess he made; maybe it was the food smelling rotten, or because Peter hadn’t had a bath, or the sight of the bloody spiders mashed on the floor, but Noelle felt very sick to her stomach. Her knees were acting up so badly that she had to climb down the stairs very slowly, because she was afraid she might trip. She knew she would be crying, really crying, by the time she got to the door, and she didn’t want Peter to hear her.
“Well, kid . . .” Peter called after her. “If you say I gotta go, then I gotta go. Sure am sorry you’re sore, though. I’m real sorry about that.”
Noelle went to bed early, and her mother put a cold washcloth across her forehead and told her maybe the food she’d cooked had been bad. That night, before she went to sleep, Noelle listened to the trees and the wind, and tried to tell if any of the bumps against the house were footsteps or just tree branches. She didn’t hear any breaking glass. She barely heard anything at all.
Noelle tried not to think about the man in the attic the next day. But that night, after she’d fought Sierra for a spot on Daddy’s knee and told him what she’d done in school while he was gone, Noelle finally went upstairs.
The sleeping bag was still spread out on the floor, but the boxes were stacked neatly where they’d been, and the blankets and newspaper under the dining room table were gone. The food wrappers and empty tins had also been cleaned away. And, she noticed, the dead spiders were gone, too, except for faint bloodstains where they’d been. At the broken window, the tree branch outside was snapped at the end and hung limply, stripped of leaves.
Noelle sat in the middle of the attic floor. All she heard was the quiet, like last night in her bed. She didn’t hear any of her hidden playmates rustling or scurrying around her, the way she used to. Maybe all of the mice and spiders had been scared away.
“Noelle!” It was her mother’s voice, calling from near the door. She knocked twice, hard. “Lord, child, come down from there before you break your neck. It’s getting dark!”
And it was, Noelle noticed. It was getting so dark, she couldn’t make out any of the alphabet letters printed on the empty boxes around her. She couldn’t see the lines between the planks of wood on the walls. She couldn’t see the highest point of the ceiling, where it became a tip. It didn’t seem like the same attic, in fact. It was ugly. Why had she ever wanted to live here? Noelle hadn’t noticed exactly when all her plans and hopes for the attic first began to go away, but now they were just gone. She couldn’t think of why she’d ever wanted to stay up here in a dusty, dark attic all alone.
Noelle jumped up toward the sliver of light coming from beneath the attic door. She didn’t run, but she walked very, very fast. Looking toward her feet, she saw the fluorescent green glowing from her untied shoelace, which was flopping loose, and she reminded herself she’d better be sure to ask Mommy to tie it extra tight for her once she got downstairs, back inside her house.
She might trip and fall. She might break her leg.
Wishes didn’t always work. Sometimes, bad things happened.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Eric Jerome Dickey, originally from Memphis, Tennessee, is the New York Times best-selling author of Genevieve, Drive Me Crazy, The Other Woman and several other novels. He worked as a computer programmer, a middle-school teacher, an actor and a stand-up comic before becoming a full-time novelist.
Lawana Holland-Moore lives in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area. Considered an expert on the ghosts and hauntings of that region, she has also tracked supernatural occurrences in the Caribbean and Ireland. After spending a month in Senegal in 2001, she was inspired by the beautiful, unforgettable country and its people. She is currently working on a novel.
“It is the same sun bedewed with illusions,
The same sky unnerved by hidden presences,
The same sky feared by those who have a
reckoning with the dead.
And suddenly my dead draw near to me.”
—from “Visit” by Leopold Senghor,
Senegalese statesman and poet.
Terence Taylor, in his own words: People ask why someone as nice, funny and kind to kids, animals and old people as I am writes horror stories, especially after years of writing wholesome and educational scripts for children’s television. It’s because horror can express truths about life in allegories people hear without judgment, layered with humor and insight.
In dealing with loss in my life, I’ve learned to explore the things and places that scare me, but also to find happy endings there, the lessons of loss. With horror, I try to give my readers a glimmer o
f hope in the darkness. For more, visit my website at www.terenc-etaylor.com.
B. Gordon Doyle, in his own words:
Born and raised in the Empire State,
The son of the son of a preacher.
A dark horse, a falling star
The last of the Dunbar Apache.
Knave of ravens, reluctant magician.
Out of the blue and bold as love,
I go walking after midnight along
The moonlight mile.
L. R. Giles is a Virginia native and an alumnus of Old Dominion University. His short story “The Track” appeared in Dark Dreams, and his serial novel Necromance has appeared on www.awarenessmagazine.net. He regularly publishes fiction at his online home, www.lrgiles.com. He’s hard at work on two full-length novels, The Hourglass and Youngbloodz, while maintaining two full-time jobs, as a systems analyst and a husband. Drop him a line anytime at [email protected].
An award-winning fiction writer, Chesya Burke has been writing supernatural/suspense fiction since 2001. In that time, her fiction has appeared in such venues as Would That It Were, The Best of Horrorfind, Tales from the Gorezone and Dark Dreams. Her chapbook collection Chocolate Park is available now.
“The Light of Cree” is an excerpt from her novel Sylvia’s Sun. Look for more of her work at www.chesyaburke. com.
Brian Egeston is a writer living in Atlanta. The author of five published novels, Egeston has had work nominated for the PEN/Faulkner Award, Townsend Prize for Fiction and National Book Award. His work is used as a classroom text in schools from California to Maryland. Granddaddy’s Dirt, his third novel, is currently in development as an independent feature film. His writings have appeared in nationwide publications, and he is a featured commentator for National Public Radio. He lives with his lovely wife, Latise.
Voices From The Other Side Page 31
