3. One
One
Creed - Present
My footfalls send vibrations up my ankles as I ascend the grand staircase.
Cecil, my older brother, has moved us into a new house, yet again.
Well, “house” is putting it mildly—”manor” would be more accurate.
This place is unlike anything I’ve seen in real life, let alone lived in.
My brother and I’s last place was a one bedroom utility apartment.
Each week, we switched who would sleep on the couch.
Despite how close we are, sharing a twin bed is non negotiable.
Now, it looks like we’ll have enough bedrooms for every day of the week.
To top it off, all the furniture has been left behind.
It’s like whoever lived here disappeared without bothering to take a thing.
Cecil won’t tell me the how or why, so I’m content with taking advantage as long as we’re able.
My older brother and I have been on the move since I lost my hearing.
He was only sixteen the first time he found us our own place, leaving our father behind.
Whether or not the man cared is still a mystery to me.
I haven’t seen him since, so I doubt it very much.
He was probably glad to wash his hands of us and the trouble that knowing me entails.
The past nine years have involved constant hiding as the Cleansing has spread.
Apparently, my being deaf is cause for execution in the eyes of a bunch of holy shitheads.
Their theory is that I have been touched by The Darkness, which took one of my senses.
If only they knew it was merely a nasty case of Meningitis.
A curse does make a much more compelling story, I’ll give them that.
Cecil limits my knowledge under the guise of protecting me.
I could argue that I’m plenty old enough, but I don’t care to waste the energy.
To be honest, my brother is much more paranoid than I am.
Always looking over our shoulders, always reminding me to be vigilant.
It’s not that I’m careless, but living a life of paranoia is hardly living at all.
Dying is the one thing we all have in common, so why fear it?
Right now, I have the grueling task of choosing a bedroom.
After twenty years of my older brother hovering, I’m ecstatic for some space of my own.
I mean, I could have my own wing in this place.
I asked him how we could possibly afford this.
He answered the same way he does all my questions. The less you know, the better.
I’ll give him props, though, the place is perfect. Smack dab in the middle of Nowhereville, Louisiana, it’s the safest I’ve felt in a long time. If someone is willing to track me down all the way out here, they can have me.
I trace my fingers along the grooves of the wooden bannister of the staircase, contemplating which route to take.
The halls go to the left, right, and forward, stretching on and on.
Turning left, I take the more narrow passage.
It’s darker here, no light fixtures lining the walls or ceiling.
I feel along as I go, catching on seams in the ancient wallpaper.
There is artwork everywhere—macabre depictions of biblical tales, definitely not my taste—but no pictures of anyone who lived here.
The house is so impersonal, it reminds me of an old museum more than anything.
After almost a minute of walking, a single door comes into view at the end of the hall.
Each step has only led me into more and more darkness, and focusing my eyes is futile.
Unease hits my stomach and I hasten my steps, reaching for the handle.
I’d never admit I’m scared of the dark, but no sight and no hearing? Hard pass, thanks.
I swing the door open and am met with—a closet?
Alright, pretty anticlimactic. I’m able to make out a chain hanging above my head and yank on it.
The saddest light I’ve ever seen flickers on to reveal brooms, mop buckets, a rusted tool box, and random odds and ends.
What a waste of a hallway. Whoever designed the layout of this house must have a really lame sense of humor.
As I go to turn the light off, my peripheral catches on a massive painting outside the closet.
The amber glow illuminates the figure of a naked man eating the head of a child.
I recognize the painting as Saturn Devouring His Son.
Jesus, no wonder I had the heebie jeebies up here.
Who the hell would want this in their home?
The painting is about as tall as I am, the once bronze frame now tarnished and discolored.
Creepy as it may be, it could also be worth a ton of money if it’s legitimate.
Since I’m hidden from the eyes of society, my own income hasn’t ever been an option.
Maybe Cecil could sell this and we could leave the country, start fresh.
I could finally do something for us, instead of relying on my brother.
I grab the painting on either side of the frame and try to lift, but it doesn’t budge.
It either weighs about five hundred pounds, or it’s bolted into the wall.
Scowling, I run my fingers along the edge to find a gap where we might pry it off.
It’s flush to the wall in all places but one.
Under my left index finger, I’m met with the coolness of metal.
It’s rounded, in a row of five. I mash my cheek to the wall, attempting to see where my fingers touch, but the light is utterly useless.
If I had to guess, it feels like… hinges?
This peaks my interest a hell of a lot more than the stuffy old closet. I drop to my knees and reach lower, searching for another set of hinges.
Ah-ha!
About a foot from the ground, there’s one more. Well, well, well. This place is full of surprises. Cecil will wring my neck if I don’t tell him before I investigate, but I can’t help myself. This is the most excitement I’ve had in years.
With the hinges on the left, I quickly turn my focus to the right side of the painting.
My knowledge on hidden passageways is limited, but I assume there’s no door knob waiting to be uncovered.
My hands flit over the edges—poking, pulling, sliding.
There’s gotta be something, and I have every intention of finding it.
Minutes pass and I grow more frustrated, grunting in the back of my throat. The lack of airflow back here has sweat prickling at my top lip and under my arms. So help me God if it’s another pointless closet.
Finally, my fingers find a gap between the canvas of the painting and the frame holding it in place.
It’s tiny, but it’s enough to have me grinning ear to ear.
I step back into the closet and rummage around until I find a flathead screwdriver.
It slides perfectly underneath the frame and pops a section of it out, revealing a keyhole.
It takes a skeleton key, but who knows where that might be.
I humph in frustration all over again. Maybe tomorrow when Cecil leaves I can scour the house, but for now, it’s gonna be my little secret.
I squint into the darkness to place the piece of the frame back over the keyhole, but it slips from my fingers. Shit. Squatting down, my fingers flutter over the wooden floorboards, searching. Something metallic and coarse with rust grazes the edge of my pinky. No way.
The bronze piece is split down the middle; a box with a slide top. Clever. But why hide the key within the secret door? Unless they were more concerned about keeping something in than they were keeping something out. Ew, fuck, I have the heebie jeebies all over again.
My palms join my armpits in the race of who can sweat the most. I rub them on the front of my pants while I weigh my options. What if there’s a rabid animal in there? Or dead bodies?
“Or what if there’s a million dollars?” I sign to myself, the little devil on my shoulder doing all the talking.
“Hmmm… okay. You’ve convinced me.”
Feeling giddy, I thrust the key into the lock. The weight of the door has it swinging itself open. Great—more stairs. There’s a glimmer of light at the top, and I tell myself that’s a good thing. With a deep breath, I hold tight to my nerve and take the stairs two at a time.
As I get closer to the light, an odor begins to flood my nostrils. It smells like wet wood, dust, and waste. And to be clear, by “waste”, I mean piss and shit. Lord help me, if there’s actually an animal up here, I’ll faint.
I was really hoping for the million dollars.
The light source is a dust coated window.
Wood slatted ceilings covered with cobwebs greet me as I near the landing.
I’m standing in the middle of an attic-turned-bedroom.
Pipes and insulation adorn the walls, and there’s a twin bed on a wrought iron frame with dingy white bedding.
In the far corner is a clawfoot bathtub and a toilet, but no door to separate the restroom from the “bedroom”.
There are drawings stuck to some of the wooden beams. Was this a child’s room? That’s… depressing.
The odor is nearly unbearable, urging me to bury my nose in the cotton of my shirt as I begin my exploration.
I wander around the room, touching things as I go.
There’s a well loved bible on a nightstand, the pages wrinkled and spine broken.
To the right of the bed is the lone window that looks out over the pond.
Double paned and in the shape of a hexagon, it’s unable to be opened.
Which is a shame, because some fresh air would do wonders in this place.