The Stranger in the Attic

by Agnes Makoczy

  As she went back down, she would have whistled had she known how to. She was mighty pleased. She knew that sooner or later she would attempt to open that door again. And this time, she wouldn’t fail.

  Chapter 35. Charlie Fox And The Lack Of Clues

  Charlie Fox, young, permanently idle, and in love with Alfred’s pretty daughter Celia, often came to visit. While Henrietta knew—absolutely, positively knew—that he was the one slowly absconding with her treasured knick-knacks and taking them to the pawnshop, she also knew that he was desperately in love with Celia. Besides that, he seemed to be fond of Alfred, and as much as she despised her husband sometimes, she had once been in love with him, and she couldn’t begrudge him a friendship.

  Although it wasn’t any of her business—Celia being her step-daughter—she wondered sometimes whether the girl had any feelings for this unkempt, useless, but friendly young man. He didn’t have a proper job, yet always seemed to have money. He had a family somewhere out of town that he never talked about.

  He was probably into some shady business. Since the town had fallen on hard times, that was what most young people did. They either sold drugs or moved away to more prosperous towns where there were still some jobs available. Otherwise, there was nothing much to look forward to in such a dreary place.

  At any rate, when she came down, she heard them talk about the murders. That was one subject she wanted no part of. Murder. Life was sad enough, miserable enough, to dwell on such unpleasantries.

  “This guy I know is a policeman,” she heard Charlie say as she put her apron on. “And he told me that there was a note pinned to the body.”

  Hearing that, Henrietta hurried back to the living room. “What did the note say?”

  “Wanton Woman. Do you know what that means, Mrs. Jones?”

  “Yes, Charlie. Wanton means shameless. You know, boys, this all sounds very familiar,” she said. “I think the old serial killer is back.”

  “What are you talking about, Henrietta?” Alfred asked.

  “You might not remember this, Alfie, but when I was young there was a series of murders in this town, in which notes were pinned to the bodies of the victims.”

  “Were they bodies of women?”

  “Oh, yes. I remember that clearly.”

  “Well, Charlie, you might want to tell your policeman friend to pass that on. This is either the same killer or a copycat.”

  “On Ember Street?”

  “Could be. So far, this is where all the bodies have been found.”

  “My friend says that the police have a clue, but they're not telling.”

  “Does your friend know what that’s about?”

  “Yes, but he has refused to tell, even after I treated him to three beers.”

  “That’s very mysterious.”

  “No, Mr. Jones, that’s not even the mysterious part. I heard last night that there was a policeman on patrol in the park the night of the last murder. He heard the cries, but he was too terrified to do anything about them, so he stayed hidden behind the bushes and waited for the sun to come up.”

  “You must be kidding. And him a policeman? What could have scared him so much?”

  “He said that he heard howling before the cries began, and he thought there were wolves in the park, and they had attacked someone. He had no idea there was a murder being committed.”

  “That’s big. No wonder they don’t want the locals to find out.”

  “But can you imagine, Mr. Jones, how this guy feels? Knowing that he could have prevented the murder if he hadn’t been such a coward?”

  Alfred Jones shook his head from side to side, remembering the too-familiar feeling of cowardice.

  “Tell me, Charlie, what do you know about the piece of paper on which the words were written?”

  “I’ve heard it mentioned that it was some rough, gray paper. Like that cheap recycled stuff they use for drafts at the newspaper’s.”

  “I wonder if they will find any fingerprints on them.”

  “No, they won’t, I don’t think. They’ve tested the first one already, and there was nothing. The killer is clever, Mr. Jones. He must know about not leaving evidence behind.”

  Chapter 36. Hypnotic Eyes

  That night, Henrietta found George Baxter still fully dressed, sitting in the threadbare armchair in his attic room. His door was open. Her Bible lay open on his lap. When she stepped into the room and put his dinner tray down, she was shocked to see how tired and worn out he looked.

  But he put the Bible down and politely got up and took a step toward her. He smiled that enigmatic dark smile and looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.

  “Henrietta, you do look lovely tonight,” he said. “If you don’t mind me telling you.”

  “No, sir,” she answered with a shaky voice. Why did this man have such a hypnotic effect on her?

  “George.”

  “No, sir, it can’t be George, I’m sorry. Mr. Baxter will have to do.”

  “But may I keep calling you Henrietta?”

  “Would you stop if I asked you to?”

  The lodger laughed. It was a cynical—yet again not unkind—laughter.

  “Don’t look so troubled, Henrietta. I really don’t want to upset you.” Then he opened his eyes big and wide. “You know, I never noticed that you had red hair.” He stepped even closer to her and touched a lock that had come loose from the bun. Henrietta trembled under his touch.

  “It’s mostly gray anymore, as I’ve gotten old.”

  “Looks lovely to me,” the lodger said, and then his eyes glazed over, and he reverted to that droning melodic voice he read from the Bible with, and he seemed to quote. “But that if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For long hair is given to her as a covering.”

  “Oh, Mr. Baxter, you make me nervous. I better go.”

  George Baxter seemed to come back to the present and looked down apologetically.

  “Don’t mind me, Mrs. Jones, if I sometimes get carried away. No harm intended. Please forgive me.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Baxter. You’re forgiven.” Henrietta smiled at him despite herself, and then she hurried out of the room. Before she closed the door behind her, she looked back and saw that George Baxter was still looking at her, still smiling.

  With one hand over her hopping heart, she walked to the stairs, and forgetting to hang on to the banister for safety, she quickly went back downstairs to where Alfred and young Charlie Fox were still sitting in the kitchen over beers, still shooting the breeze.

  Chapter 37. The Parcels

  It was two days later that the parcels arrived. Two different ones, roughly the size of shoeboxes, wrapped in plain brown parcel paper, both addressed to Mr. George Baxter. There had been a cold drizzle since early morning, and the packages—Henrietta noted with disappointment—had become wet. The sender’s name was written in such tiny letters that it was barely legible, but on top of that, raindrops had diluted the ink. But it seemed to her that both packages had been sent by the same person, same return address.

  They were rather heavy, and she shook them a bit, curiously. Should she bring them upstairs or should she wait for Mr. Baxter to come down? She didn’t want to seem desperate, like going upstairs too often.

  No, no, better take them to her room. They would be safe there. And she would let him know that they had arrived when she saw him. But wasn’t it her duty to take them up? She hesitated. She had no idea. Were there any lodger-home owner rules out there?

  Henrietta shrugged. There was no point in worrying about it. She carried the boxes upstairs and placed them on her dresser. There.

  Chapter 38. The Stain

  The house had gone quiet. Alfred slept in his new room, snoring gently. The lodger was out. The noises from the street slowly quietened down as the town got ready to slumber.

  Henrietta sat in her armchair, her needlepoint forgotten in her lap. The packages still sat on her dresser. She had been staring at them
on and off, all day long. Silly woman, she told herself. You’re becoming obsessed with this man. Go and take those boxes upstairs already.

  She put her needlepoint down and walked over to the dresser and picked one of the packages up. The bottom was moist to the touch in one corner, and she turned it around. A dark, reddish stain was spreading across the brown wrapping paper. The color of rust. It had even left an ugly tinge on the lace doily. She shuddered and almost bent over it to sniff the stain, but—disgusted with herself, with her lack of trust—she straightened out again. She wasn’t about to descend into that kind of behavior. The stain was not blood, even if it looked like it. And she was definitely not going to sniff it.

  Not that it didn’t raise a few questions.

  But this was becoming ridiculous. She grabbed the packages and ascended the stairs, slowly. Her knees were killing her. Too much climbing up and down, plus the cold weather wasn’t helping. Her joints were too old for all this exertion.

  She could have told George to take them up, but she had become more and more possessive of her lodger, her lodger, and simply wanted him all to herself.

  Henrietta was already halfway up the steps to the attic when the grandfather clock in the living room struck twelve times. Midnight. Startled—as if she had been caught doing something naughty—she looked toward the front door. George Baxter wasn’t home yet but could step through the front door any minute. She hoped she would have time to put these by his door and come back down. Otherwise, what would he think of her, up this late? And upstairs by his apartment? Would he think she was snooping?

  She hurried to his door and put the packages on the little table in the foyer. It was so quiet up here. She closed her eyes for a second and listened to the silence. The street noises didn’t reach up here, nor the barking dogs, nor the drunk neighbors. It was an absolute silence that you could get lost in.

  She turned to go back downstairs, but a terrible idea assaulted her. Henrietta quickly shook her head, determined to ignore it and hurry downstairs, but the devil on her left shoulder kept whispering in her ears, do it, do it. You’re all alone. This is your chance.

  Henrietta turned around and stared at the attic door as if hypnotized. Her heart was beating so loudly that she could hear the blood roaring in her skull. Then she saw her hand reach for the doorknob, and she tried to pull it back, but the desire to know was greater than the fear of getting caught, so she put it on the doorknob, and before she could deny herself the moment, she moved her hand. The door would be locked, she hoped, wouldn’t it?

  But the knob turned, and the door opened, and her hands went to her mouth to stifle a horrified cry. She had done it. She had broken in.

  Ashamed of her audacity, wishing that the ground would swallow her right there and then, she entered the room. It was dark except for a very weak night light.

  She turned the overhead light on and looked around. The attic was clean, cleaner than she’d ever seen it, and it had been turned into a pleasing, comfortable room. George Baxter had taken advantage of whatever discards the attic came with, and he had remodeled an inhospitable space into quite a cozy area.

  She stepped into the room shyly and didn’t know what to do next. But her feet did, and they walked her to the armoire, that old, broken armoire that suddenly wasn’t broken anymore. George Baxter had repaired it and polished it down, and it looked a beautiful antique.

  She walked toward it in a trance, her arms outstretched, and reassuring herself that she was still alone, opened its doors wide. A forbidden thrill ran through her body. She inhaled his scent, the fragrance of his clean clothes, and she quivered with pleasure. She admired how methodical he was. All the clothes in it were freshly ironed, nicely hung, properly ordered. With shaking hands, she rifled through his clothes, his hanging shirts, his pants, and jackets, touching, sensing, almost forgetting that she was here to find out his secrets.

  But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing in pockets, nothing on the shelves. Except that these were really good clothes, which did not cease to confound her. Why was this man renting a run-down attic in a derelict home?

  She hurried to the dresser and opened the drawers one by one. She went through them quickly, but careful not to disturb anything. What was she looking for? Did she even know? Disappointed, she headed for the door. She had had such high hopes of finding something.

  Then she remembered the worn leather briefcase he had shown up with on the first night. She had quite forgotten about it. He still came and went with it sometimes, but he didn’t have it with him tonight. How nice it would be to take a peek. She rushed through the room again but didn’t see it. And yet it must be somewhere. She looked around. She looked under the bed. Where could it be?

  And then, suddenly, she heard the front door open and close. Had the night not been so silent, she wouldn’t have heard anything. But there it was, loud and clear, and she was in her lodger’s room, going through his stuff like a cheap burglar.

  She had to get out of the room right away. Almost forgot the overhead light and had to rush back to turn it off. Then she quickly stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

  Her whole body shook with fear. Her heart pounded so violently that it took her breath away. She looked to one side and the other hopelessly, wishing that she could disappear.

  There was nowhere to hide. She could already hear his footsteps, on the creaky rungs on her own floor. One by one, his heavy footsteps, getting closer and closer. She was on the verge of panic. Her head swung from side to side, looking for a way out, trying to think of an escape but her mind was a blank.

  When she heard the lodger’s footsteps on the last flight of stairs, she almost screamed out loud. Her whole body shook with fear. She knew that she was about to start crying. She had never done anything like this in her life, and now she was about to get caught.

  When she saw his head first appear between the rungs of the banister, she swallowed hard and quickly grabbed the packages and held them against her chest, and with a wildly beating heart, she looked straight at the lodger.

  “Good evening, Mr. Baxter,” she said with a shaky voice. “I didn’t know you were still out.”

  “Good evening, Henrietta. What are you doing up here so late at night?” His voice—usually so polite—was contemptuous and hostile.

  “These came for you. I was about to get in bed when I realized that I had forgotten to bring them up. I was about to leave them on this side table.”

  “Were you, now?”

  He stared at her, and like a deer in the headlights, she stared back.

  “You better go now,” he said, sounding like he was dismissing her. He took his packages and walked to his door, and Henrietta—not knowing what else to say or do—walked away and began descending the stairs. “Good night, Mr. Baxter,” she called out as she went down, but the lodger never answered. She never looked back. She was too terrified to do so.

  Chapter 39. Celia

  Celia arrived early Saturday morning, prepared to spend her week off from school with daddy, or rather—Henrietta told herself uncharitably—with that waster, Charlie.

  With Celia wanting her bedroom back, she faced the sad reality of having to welcome her husband back into the marital bed. But to her surprise, he offered to sleep on the couch, which was in the sitting area on the landing.

  Henrietta didn’t quite know how she felt about that. She suspected that it wasn’t only the lodger who left the house randomly in the middle of the night, from time to time. How convenient for Alfred that she slept like a log and it would take the shooting of cannonballs to wake her. On the rare occasion that she heard footsteps in her dreams, she was rather unable to wake up sufficiently to go investigate. But sleeping on the couch would make it even easier to slip out if her husband wanted to. So, Alfred temporarily moved to the couch. As to how she felt about all that, Henrietta decided that she genuinely didn’t care that much at all.

  Celia was loud and cheerful. A
nd she loved to give hugs and kisses, and for some strange reason was unusually fond of her stepmother.

  Henrietta didn’t know how she felt about that either. After the initial disappointment of not having children, she had decided that it was for the best, and went on to enjoy the freedom from maternal responsibility. And when she thought about her friends struggling with unruly, troublesome, disobedient children, and the horrible financial burden that they entailed, she was happy—for the most part—to have never had any.

  The other thing was that Celia followed her everywhere, and insisted on calling her MOM, not mom, with small, discreet letters, but with an enthusiastic MOM that seemed to burst at the seams with love.

  “So, imagine, MOM, that my friend Rosalie—you remember her, right?—went to a hotel with Peter, spent the night with him in secret, and is now pregnant.”

  “Oh, goodness, what is she planning on doing?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t think Peter is interested in her that way.”

  “Poor girl. Has she told her parents yet?”

  “No. She’s too scared.” Henrietta finished folding the towels and headed with them for the bathroom. Celia followed. “She did tell me that she was going to get a massive haircut and dye her hair. To be more grown-up, hoping that Peter will like her better.”

  “Listen, Celia, if Peter doesn’t like her a brunette, what makes her think that he will like her a blonde or a redhead?”

  “Well, it’s like reinventing yourself, changing the color of your hair. Men like redheads, don’t they? You were one, and daddy married you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she said without enthusiasm. And murderers seem to like redheads too, she thought bitterly, and almost said so out loud, but the discussion was too gory to be had with a young person like Celia.