He pulled away
and eased out from behind the furnace. A chill ran up his spine, and the
goosebumps running along his arms stung to the touch. It was close. Alex
squinted, trying to distinguish the differences in the shadows. He took a step
forward and hit a cloud of cold air. He was headed straight toward it. A deep,
gravelly sound flowed like a wave in the ocean to his ears. He wasn’t sure if
Margaret could hear it too, but he was not about to take the chance and give up
her location by calling to her. He shifted his eyes toward the right—toward the
door. He was waiting for the perfect moment. The beast lunged forward and reached
for Alex with its icy arms. Alex ducked and swerved. He spun around and ran
straight for the door. Leaping onto the staircase, he turned back to make sure
it was right behind him; it was. Halfway up, his feet betrayed him, and he fell
body-flat with his legs stretched out on the stairs below. A frigid grip on his
leg triggered his reflexes, and kicking furiously, he broke free. Quickly, he
scrambled back to his feet and up to the first level. He ran through the
kitchen and dining room before reaching the steps to the second story. The
entrance to the attic was in the hallway between all three rooms. Once he got
the creature there, he could buy Margaret the time to find Wilby and get out.
The burning in
his lungs gave a small distraction to the fate that lay before him.
Hesitating to
take the next step, the creature set out a welcome mat. The attic door flew
open and slammed into the wall. Shards of plaster catapulted outward, grazing
the corner of Alex’s eyelid.
He pressed his
palm on the wound to stop the bleeding and used the sleeve of his hoodie to
smear the blood out of his eyes before running up the staircase. The musty odor
soured his stomach, and his gag reflex rendered him motionless.
He bent over and
placed his hands on his knees, taking in in several short breaths before his
body would allow the passage of a deep breath. He searched for a place to hide,
but every corner of the space was cluttered with remnants of generations before
him. The only clearing left him completely exposed in the center of the room.
He might as well hang a sign around his neck that said, come and get me.
A sudden boom
startled him, but it was a familiar sound. The door had been slammed shut. His
plan had worked. He was alone with the darkness and nowhere to go.
Alex backed up
until he felt the cold air hitting his back. He was leaning against the only
window in the room. In front of him, about fifteen feet away, hovered the
grotesque entity of something that once had a life. Droplets of sweat descended
from his brow, leaving a salty taste on his pursed lips.
He clasped his
head, a piercing pain forcing him to close his eyes in agony. It stopped.
Slowly opening them, the attic blurred, spilling images into one another before
settling into a different landscape in the same space. An old bed lay up
against the wall to his right. To his
left, boxes of children’s toys were stacked on each other, some spilling out
onto the floor. In the center of the room, more boxes, neatly sealed and
labeled. A ray of sunlight caressed the room, highlighting an old desk near the
staircase.
Startled by a
sudden gush of air, Alex jumped away from the window. A man—about forty years
old—wriggled through the open window. He clutched a glass bottle containing a
clear liquid in one hand, and several large rags in the other. Alex stood,
unable to move. The movie was playing out, and he had to see how it ended.
The perpetrator
drenched the rags with the mysterious liquid before scattering them around the
attic. In getaway mode on the staircase, he pulled a box of matches out of his
pocket, struck them, and released the flaming sticks into the air. In moments,
the rags ignited, building a wall of flames that engulfed everything in its
path. Shielding his face from the intense heat, Alex collapsed on the floor,
struggling to breathe through the thick smoke.
And then, quiet.
Still crouching,
he lowered his arms. The fire was gone, and he no longer found himself in the
confines of the attic. A mahogany dresser with an overly ornate mirror masked
the familiarity of the room. It was his mother’s bedroom, but not. A woman lay
sleeping in the bed, the covers drawn to her shoulders and shrouding her face.
The arsonist took out two more rags from his pocket, and once again, drenched
them with the clear liquid. He staged a semblance to his actions moments ago,
and the room ignited. The arsonist quickly opened the window and hopped out to
the roof, jumping to the safety of the grass below.
The woman
grunted and then coughed before groggily sitting up in bed. Alex immediately
recognized her. It was Carol Bishop. Her eyes widened with astonishment when
she realized there was a blazing fire at her feet. Leaping from the bed, she
called out for Alister.
She fled to the
hallway and ran into a man waiting for her— James Bishop. He punched her in the
face, and she went down with a large thud. Bishop ran into the bedroom that was
now Wilby’s. He emerged with a small boy and rushed into the second bedroom. A
young girl of about ten or twelve followed him out. “Damn, that must be Alister
and Ester,” Alex murmured.
Jim ran down the
stairs with Ester close behind. He didn’t hear Carol call out to his daughter.
The child turned and ran back to her stepmother. When she reached the hallway,
the woman was waiting for her. Consumed with anger, she latched onto the
child’s arm and squeezed tightly. The little girl screamed and tried to fight back,
but Carol was too strong.
Alex turned
away, distracted by Jim Bishop’s yells and the pounding of shoes as he came
running back up the staircase. Carol, blinded by hate, yanked Ester up the
attic stairs, dragging the child as she screamed and latching the door behind
them. Reaching the inferno, Carol gasped. She hadn’t any idea the fire had
originated in the very room she had boxed them into. The smoke swallowed the
attic in moments, rendering her incapable of finding her way.
Alex squinted to
distinguish them through the smoke. It was impossible to navigate; he could
barely get a fix on them. Carol gasped, struggling for air. Crawling to get to
the window, she collapsed unconscious on the floor. Jim pounded furiously on
the door, trying to break it down. “Ester!” He screamed for his child, but only
silence returned his call.
Crying, the
child couldn’t speak. She clutched her throat, gurgling, and huddled further
into the corner. Finally, she surrendered, and her lungs succumbed to the
suffocating smoke.
Alex inhaled
clean, cool air. He was sitting on the snowy front lawn. Two men and a boy lay
next to him. The boy—Alister—was unconscious, and Kirkpatrick was attempting to
revive him. Jim Bishop was catatonic with grief.
The sirens of
the fire trucks blared in the distance, and when he turned to look for them, he
found himself back in the attic. The malevolent spirit hovered no more than ten
feet away as it glared at him.
Alex felt a
connection. It was showing him the events of the fire back in 1932. It wanted
him to know. But why? The hate from the creature was matched by his own
confusion. Why bother to let him see this?
Again, Carol
appeared. She crawled on the floor; the smoke had nearly taken her, but the
fire reached out, consuming her flesh. The woman screamed in agony before
shattering through the glass and plummeting to the ground below. Alex quickly
looked away.
The spirit moved
closer. Alex stepped backward and pinned himself to the wall. Swooping toward
the ceiling, it circled the room and let out a high-pitched screech. A stack of
unpacked boxes lifted off the ground and thrusted toward him. Alex managed to dodge
most of them, but a corner clipped his right shoulder and knocked him off his
feet and onto his ass. Struggling to recover, he limped toward the staircase,
only to be thrown across the room and against the wall. The spirit opened the
window with a glance. Alex groggily crawled a few feet and held onto an old
nightstand to leverage himself. But halfway through his struggle, he found
himself levitating off the floor and hovering midway between the ground and the
ceiling, his body floating toward the open window.
For the first
time in his life, Alex McKenna felt his death nearing. The only thing he could
think about was Margaret. He saw her face. So beautiful. The life he hoped they
have together seemed so clear a few hours ago.
“Why show me?”
he whispered to the darkness. “You’re just going to kill me anyway.”
The creature
pointed toward the window.
Alex turned his
head. Straining, he could see part of the
driveway. The shadowy figure from last night’s encounter in the parking
lot stood facing the attic window. Slowly, it pulled the black veil from its
face. An elderly woman stood glaring at him; her eyes filled with hate.
“Marilyn
Monroe,” Alex murmured. “Did she want you to show me?” He pointed to outside
the window.
The spirit grew
impatient and flung him against the wall by the window. He reached out and
grabbed the framework. He was able to wrap his fingers around the molding. The
spirit grew furious and, with a nod, Alex went sailing outward and through the
open window. He clasped the other side of the frame with his left hand and held
on, suspending his body in the opening.
“You fucking son
of bitch! I’m not letting go!”
Alex heard a
loud crash from across the room. He tried to maneuver to see who it was, but
all he could do was hold on to prevent plummeting to his death.
“Nel Santo Nome di Gesù, sigillo me, i miei
parenti, questa casa, e tutte le fonti di approvvigionamento del Preziosissimo
Sangue di Gesù Cristo.”
“Leave us,
spirit! Go back to your keeper!” the voice commanded. “Nel Santo Nome di Gesù, sigillo me, i miei parenti, questa casa, e
tutte le fonti di approvvigionamento del Preziosissimo Sangue di Gesù Cristo.”
Alex smelled
incense of basil fill the room. “What the hell?” “Alex, hold on. This thing is
dissipating.”
“Ma?”
“Yeah. I’m
here.”
“Wilby and Margaret?”
“They’re safe
outside.”
He blinked his
eyes, trying to flutter away the tears. He thought he had been alone. He knew
now he wasn’t going to die today.
His mom ran to
the window, placed her right arm around Alex’s waist, and pulled him in. The
two stood in an embrace for a few seconds before, overcome with exhaustion,
Alex slid to the floor. His mom sat down beside him until he was ready to talk.
“How did you
know to come here?”
“Alex, you
called me.”
“What?”
“Maybe not
consciously, but you did. I got your screams in my head. I knew you were in
danger. I came straight home.”
Alex sighed. “I’m
really glad you listened.”
“Me too. Now, do
you mind telling me what the hell you were trying to do?”
