I scowl at the sight of the open attic door, the ladder settled on the ground. Julie broke the rules. Julie didn't follow the rules mommy and daddy laid out for her, and she will leave me once she finds out. I will be alone again. I will be alone for a long time once again. And it's all because Julie went to the attic. "No, no, no," my hands clench.
She needs to know what she's done.
I grip on the ladder as I pull it upwards and push it to close. I lock the attic door and stare as I hear Julie's muffled voice upstairs. She's banging on the door now. She's shouting and freaking out.
Please stop, Julie. You should have known better. Julie keeps on banging on the attic door. She wants it open. She's so loud. The rain can't drown out the sound of her voice anymore.
She keeps repeating, rapping on the door. Shouting. I'm covering my ears because of the noise. She needs to know what she's done.
"Julie, you have to stay there until you know what you've done, okay?" I say, but her loud banging is louder than my voice.
She needs to know what she's done. She's shouting now.
"You broke the rules! You broke the rules!" I shout.
Julie stops. She's quiet now. I notice the rain stopped. I could only hear my heart pounding. My head pounding. My voice in my head.
I turn around to return to my room, but I hear a muffled voice, "Okay!" I hear the fear in her voice. She knows what she's done. Julie was punished and she's learned.
The doll locked me up. I fucking messed up. I'm stuck in the attic because the doll locked me up. Oh my freakin' god, it's alive and it locked me up.
I kept banging on the door, thinking I could force it open—but when I heard that angry voice shouting at me, saying that I should've known what I've done—I stopped and gaped in awe. The boy spoke to me. I've pushed it to the limits.
I did the right thing. At least the safest way. I played along, like I've planned. If I want to survive for the night, I have to play along.
The windows in the attic are sealed. The walls are cold bricks. I am left here, sitting on the cold, wooden floor. I've responded to the boy, he knows I heard him. I can't believe the boy finally spoke to me—and I actually spoke back—and it heard me. I know it did.
Because when I shouted, I heard the lock click.
But I'm still sitting here. My hands on the door, unable to push it open. I'm trying to prepare myself to open it and see the boy, ready to kill me, for real this time.
He killed a girl in his age when he was young, and I don't see any reason why he wouldn't do the same to me. I should be scared for my life, but I realize that I'm left wanting...more.
My heart is racing, and my mind is filled with so much questions.
All the horror movies I've watched and loved—they somehow allowed me to develop a sense of tolerance. Passion. Curiosity.
Suddenly my hands find its way to the door handle and grip it tight. I'm eager to push the door open. And so I did. "Brahms," I say as I quickly push the door open and let the ladder fall hard to the ground, right in front of the doll.
The doll is sitting on the floor, looking up. I knew it.
Slowly, I turn around to descend the stairs. I finally take one last step and carefully land right beside Brahms, still sitting on the floor.
"I get it." I say softly, "I broke the rules."
It doesn't say anything. I stay quiet for a while, waiting, maybe it would speak. But it doesn't. I carefully pick Brahms up with both my hands, carrying him as if it were fragile. Its porcelain face, still looking up. As I walk back to his room, I can't stop staring at his face.
Brahms actually look sad.
I don't feel shivers down my body—the fear I once had when I entered the house—it's all replaced with empathy.
Brahms look sad. The creases on his face, his sad, translucent eyes, and the faint smile— it makes Brahms look so sad.
I lay him back on the bed, tuck him under the covers, and I find myself softly smile at him, as if I feel the sadness that he's felt for years. I slowly move his head back to its normal state, and turn to walk off.
But I stop walking as I remember the kiss.
I turn again to face Brahms, "good night, Brahms." I whisper, my face close to his face, and plant a kiss on his forehead. I stand my ground then walk off again until I hear an indistinct voice,
"Good night."
The voice stops me from walking, I stand there, trying to make out the voice. It sounds soft, as if it came from a child. But in some way, it sounded too hoarse for a child's voice.
"Good night." I recall it again. Could it be?
But the voice—the voice that shouted at me earlier was hoarse and deep—like a grown man's voice. Oh my god. I just realized the voice earlier sounded a little too deep for a young boy.
I glance at Brahms, still laying on the bed.
The voice I heard just now sounded like it was a falsetto. It sounded sweeter than the shouting-Brahms. I liked this voice better.
I realize I'm smiling faintly. "Good night." I say again.