Chapter Three: The Attic

Determined to get in, I jammed the key into the keyhole once more and twisted it every which way. I didn't care if the darn thing snapped in half. I had to know what was in there! With a final smack to the butt of the key, the door swerved open. First I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then I stepped in and shut the door behind me.

The first thing I saw was a model spread across two tables. Slowly I approached it and knelt beside it, carefully observing the masterly crafted miniature buildings. I practically grew up surrounded by art, but this was probably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Everything was a perfect copy of its original, down to the little details like fire hydrants, road signs, and gardens. My eyes slowly scanned the model, taking in every last piece like they were bits of my favorite foods. I was completely awestruck, speechless. It must have taken a lifetime to complete!

My line of vision travelled up, down, and side to side throughout the miniature replica of Winter River. I stopped to carefully observe the cemetery. Two miniature wreaths sat on one of the flat areas. The white sash across one said "Adam" while the other read "Barbara". People donned in black surrounded these wreaths. Were Adam and Barbara the people I saw in the window?

I continued travelling towards the bridge with the red cover. In the model's version, the covering was perfect. In reality, there was a large gaping hole. My eyes then moved up to the house. The model had the better version. Outside, cranes and tools were ruining the house's face. A heavy sigh escaped my lips. Once the renovations were complete, the model would be the only proof of the house's former existence.

Something in the corner of my eye caught my attention. It was a rather plain object, but the flash of light blue was what really got my interest. I reached towards the perch it was sitting on and took it in my hands, holding it delicately. It was a book titled, Handbook for the Recently Deceased. The cover was a dull brown and already beginning to wear. The pages inside were starting to gain a yellow tint. I flipped through the pages, briefly scanning the chapter titles. All was silent except for the faint construction noises in the background.

"The living usually won't see the dead," I read out loud, my voice a low murmur. "Live people ignore the strange and unusual." My eyes paused and stared at that small statement. I re-read it numerous times as if I did not comprehend its meaning. But I knew. I knew too well what that sentence meant. I was the living embodiment of that sentence. Live people ignore the strange and unusual. The book remained open in my trembling hands. Pressure built up behind my eyes. A lump formed in my throat. I bowed my head, shutting my eyes tightly, trying my best to fight back tears. Images filled my mind, images of me standing alone in a dark corner at my own birthday party, sitting alone at lunch every day with my bug project as my only company, being without a science partner because everyone thought I was too weird, walking home from school without a friend to talk to. Was this my fate? Was I doomed to be ignored forever as if I were dead?

With the book in hand, I wandered around the attic taking slow steps. The floorboards creaked and whined with each step. There wasn't really much to see in the attic besides the model. The only large piece of furniture was a couch covered with a white tarp. A small seemingly broken television set sat across from the couch. The only thing that did not look old or busted was the half-done wallpaper.

"Lydia!" Mother called in her piercing sing-song voice. The jarring noise caused me to jump in my spot. It seemed like my heart skipped a beat for a moment, but it resumed to its normal metronome. Another cold draft drifted past me and rustled the pages closed. Shuddering, I placed the book back where I found it.

"Wait," I said to myself just as I put my hand on the doorknob. My gaze trailed to the floor. "Where's the key?" Suddenly, I heard the soft noise of metal scraping against wood. The key tapped at my feet and stopped movement with a final clack. I looked back up, scanning the seemingly empty room. "Hello?" I called. There was no answer, simply a small gust from the draft. Quickly I grabbed the key and left the attic, locking the door behind me.

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For the remainder of the summer, I locked myself into a few specific rooms in the house. One was the kitchen, where I ate my brief meals. The next was my newly built dark room, where I developed the piles of pictures I took. Another was my bedroom, where I put together my albums. The last room was the attic. It was too dirty up there for my photography projects, but it was there where I performed my other usual activities. The haunting atmosphere gave me some inspiration for clothing designs. All of my designs were darkly colored, had long sleeves, and long skirts or pants. I found that this just reflected the fact that I was always cold up there. Even with the window closed, goose bumps prickled any exposed skin, and sometimes little gusts of wind would somehow sail under my skirt or through my sleeves.

I brought my spookiest reads upstairs and curled up on the dusty couch where I would read for hours. I read through my Poe collection twice before it was time for school. When I wanted to take a break from my favorite poet, I brought out The Shining and continued from where I left off. Mother did not approve of me reading these works, so I had to keep my treasures hidden behind simpler and more age appropriate books about magic unicorns and amateur detectives. Books that had less than one-hundred pages failed to entertain me. I had long outgrown the shallow characters, generic plots, and simple vocabulary. Classics like Frankenstein and Dracula replaced Nancy Drew and The Babysitter's Club.

Sometimes I would set down my own books and pick up the Handbook. I always returned it to the place I found it, and it never moved. This handbook was the best evidence I had to prove that the house was haunted, but I had not seen ghosts, though every day I felt them. But as they say, seeing is believing.

The book tended to be quite confusing at some points, but for the most part it was extremely fascinating. It contained rules, principles, and guidelines for ghosts to follow. These words were not meant for mortal eyes, and with each page I turned I felt excited shivers slithering up my back. I must have been breaking millions of rules just by being in the room, but I didn't care. This book proved that there was life after death, which gave me comfort. If my first life was not a good one, at least I would have a second chance at happiness.

I particularly enjoyed reading the chapters about interactions between living and dead. Direct contact seemed to be forbidden, but haunting and poltergeisting were fair actions. I learned that the living could greatly influence the afterlives of the dead. Rituals involving contacting the dead actually hurt the spirits, and ones that involved bringing spirits into mortal form could kill them. At the end of a chapter, there was a chant that did just that. But the living could also help the dead. Saying the name of a dead person would revitalize his weary and decomposing soul. Who would remember to say my name when I'm dead? Who would remember say it while I'm alive?

The attic was my special hideaway. I kept the key under a loose floorboard in my room, hoping that Mother wouldn't find it. If she could open the attic door, my sanctuary would be destroyed in the blink of an eye. This was the one place in the house that went untouched (Father caved into Mother's pressure and allowed her to make a few minor alterations to his study). It was the only remnant of this house's sanity. It was the only place I felt comfortable in. My parents could enter my room whenever they wanted, and Mother felt that she could do whatever she pleased to my décor (she attempted to replace my red curtains with pink drapes dotted in huge pink bows), but this attic was mine.