3. One #2
Something crunches beneath my foot. I lift it to see an empty box of crackers.
Now that I notice it, there’s trash all along the floor.
Canned peaches, crackers, a jar of peanut butter, tuna tins.
A variety of foods litter the space, mostly nonperishables.
I would think squatters found their way up here, but how would they lock themselves in?
A feeling of unease churns in my gut. I do a quick scan of the room, frantically searching for an intruder. I figured the smell was from vermin but if someone is living up here…
Turning in a half circle, I startle when I catch sight of a man. Upon further inspection, the man is me, and a mirror is propped up against the wall. With an eye roll, I raise a hand to my hammering chest. I must have left all that bravery at the bottom of the stairs.
Closing my eyes, I take a moment to slow my breathing and gather myself. Reel it in, Creed, seriously.
Once my eyes flutter open, I glance at the bed behind me. This time, my heart truly does stop.
Between the flooring and the bottom of the mattress, I can barely make out what appears to be a sliver of pale skin. Rounding as quickly as I can without tripping over my feet, I drop to the floor to see if I’ve officially lost my mind.
I’m met with wide eyes and a mess of dark hair.
Much worse than a raccoon.
I let out a startled yell and hurry to stand, the figure slipping out from beneath the bed and running to the opposite end of the room.
A girl, a live girl, stares at me and backs toward the bathtub.
She grabs what’s closest to her, a hairbrush, and points it at me threateningly.
My hands shoot up in defense. Not that I’m worried she’ll brush my hair to death, but if she’s as feral as she looks, I won’t take any chances.
At a loss, I furiously sign “sorry” against my chest. She looks as terrified as I feel, eyes ping ponging between my face and hands.
I watch her lips, but she keeps her mouth in a firm line.
I’m sure I could hold my own; she looks too weak to do much of anything. But I don’t really want to.
My brain’s screaming at me to flee, but I can’t leave a random girl in the attic and carry on with my day. I have some morals.
I snatch a paper from the wall and a broken blue crayon from the floor.
My hands tremble so fiercely that the words are mostly scribbles, but I hold the paper up and pray she’s literate.
WON’T HURT YOU
The anguish only seems to worsen as she shakes her head back and forth. She points a finger at herself and then at me three times in a row. My eyebrows furrow in confusion.
I glance at the staircase, surprised Cecil hasn’t heard the commotion and come running. We must be really far from the living area of the house. That is both a relief and much, much more unnerving.
Lips tucked into her mouth, she gnaws at them. A single crimson line slides down her chin. My own lips slip into a frown at the sight.
She points at the words, then at herself, and me again. Realization dawns on me.
YOU HURT ME?
As soon as I flip the paper back around, she nods her head vehemently.
Well, that’s not good.
My eyes go round and I write out another message as quickly as I can.
PLEASE DON’T I CAN HELP
My offer does little to soothe her and I realize I may be in over my head. I don’t want to involve Cecil, but I’ve never even talked to a girl, let alone one locked in an attic.
Thoughts bounce around in my head, dizzying me with stress. I watch helplessly as she crumples to the ground and brings her hands over her mouth. Hopefully she isn’t screaming, because I need more time to figure out a plan before my brother intervenes.
I don’t think she wants to hurt me.
Grabbing another piece of paper, I scribble a new message and tap my foot to get her attention. When our eyes meet, her eyebrows raise on her forehead. I wave the paper.
CAN brING FOOD AND WATER
Her head tilts, and I can tell she’s warring with herself. Sitting up on her knees, she crawls forward and points to my earlier message.
YOU HURT ME?
Her gaze is so desperate, so wild, that I find it easy to shake my head.
It’s clear that she’s absolutely terrified.
I would guess she’s early twenties, same as me, and I doubt she’s up here of her own free will.
It’s possible that she’s dangerous and locked away for the safety of others.
But with her knobby knees and trembling limbs, I have a hard time seeing her as a threat.
Her shoulders droop and she wipes her chin, leaving a smear of blood across her cheek. She’s filthy, but her raven hair doesn’t have a knot in it. Suppose that’s thanks to the hairbrush/murder weapon. Her nightgown is too short, but with how thin she is, it fits her chest and hips.
If she were less feral, she’d be pretty. Fair skin, light eyes, pink lips. Hauntingly beautiful. Right now she looks like a phantom come to life. I don’t believe in ghosts, but if she slipped through the floorboards, it would check out.
I feel her studying me, deciding if she should trust me. If she’s honest with herself, she’ll know she doesn’t have a choice.
After consideration, she nods once. I let out a relieved breath and try to conjure an encouraging smile, but it gets lost along the way and a grimace surfaces. I make a fist with my thumb and pinky out, lowering it.
“Stay.”
There’s no place for her to go, anyway, not when I have the key.
Turning away from her, I start back towards the stairs. My eyes flick towards the mirror for another glance at my strange discovery, and my gut twists when she tucks back into herself.