- c h a p t e r t w o -

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Damage

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I noticed something odd about the house that night. Lesley wasn't in her room all night and I had seen Mr. and Mrs. Lisbon leave earlier. Some girl that looked like a prostitute had entered the house and I was almost a little worried. If I hadn't made a promise to sleep over a Billy Cage's house that night then I would have stayed up all night until her parents got home.

There was an eerie fog that seemed to engulf our block, seeping in through our open windows and smoking the insides of our houses. But I sat by my windowsill, writing over and over again the same letter I was determined to send to her. I had the beginning part down. Dear, Lesley. Well, that was it. Not too much of a start, huh?

The phone rang and Billy wondered where I was. I mean, it was past seven o'clock already and I should have been there, right? I packed immediately and hopped into my mother's station wagon that was my ride to the next town over. A whole town away from my Lesley. Anything could have happened.

.

Lesley pushed aside a box that seemed to have moved since the last time she was up there. But then again the last time she was up there she was a foot shorter and a whole hell of a lot smaller. She looked back down at the bottom of the ladder where the small door, still open, revealed the small bit of light coming from outside The Closet. She took a deep breath and made a final lunge into the heat filled darkness.

She could swear she heard rats but then thought it was her imagination. Mrs. Lisbon would never allow a single rat to live within six blocks of the house. She brushed the dust from her pants that were only lit every few seconds from the flickering bulb. She gained enough courage to flick the light and it swung back and forth with anger, shining it's glow full force.

Lesley almost fell to her knees at the site. Piles and piles of boxes and crosses and stuffed animals. Baskets filled with porcelain dolls and even sheets and blankets that matched. She noticed the broken down bars of canopy beds and box springs piled against one wall, the pink insulation from the ceiling hanging down in one place, but the long nose of a carousel horse peering through the cotton candy philander. She swallowed the saliva gathering in her mouth.

The white Virgin Mary statue gleamed bright. Lesley had to literally take deep breaths to stop her heart from racing so fast. Never in her life had she been so scared as she was then. And to make matters worse, she noticed a pile of white nightgowns on top of a box, a golden crucifix their paperweight. Since now the ceiling would slam her head if she walked further she got down on her hands and knees and began to crawl. Opposite the statue.

When she reached the first box she sat Indian style in front of it, worried that someone might catch her up there and have her neck. She listened keenly for any sounds, but heard nothing and slowly let her clammy fingers grasp the hard tape. It was yellow with age and cracked when she touched it. A spider sped across the box and she pulled her hand back abruptly, smacking it on another box and then sucking on the pain in her fingers. She shook it out and then hurriedly yanked at the tape.

When she pulled the open box closer to her, the dust made her cough and gag. It smelled like attic and she could taste the age. But when she mustered the courage of sight, she was sent back into another world.

Records by the hundreds. Ones that she had never heard before. Some she recognized. But then she just figured they were her mother's. About to throw them aside and leave from fright and boredom, she went to close the box when the side split open. A few records fell on her lap and she scooted back as if they were diseased.

She picked one up and examined the cover. It was a rock record and she scrunched her face at the dusty title. She couldn't make out anything except the odd word Lux in bold black marker.

"Lux?" She questioned out loud.

The word echoed within the air, like a word spoken to awaken some sort of spirit. A chill tickled her spine and she threw the record in the box. She decided to try one more and if she didn't find anything exciting she would continue her life confining herself to The Closet.

This one was marked Cecilia and seemed packed to the brim. She ripped open the tape, but just as she split the top folds, the light started to flicker and then blew out completely. She couldn't see a thing. She turned, breathing quickly and saw the statue glowing amidst the dark. That was enough to make her scream and run in terror, but something was holding her in place. Something that made her insides squirm and her heart skip beats. It felt as if a cold breath was exhaling onto her neck. The pit of her stomach churned and sweat poured in glassy beads down the side of her face.

She heard the giggling again and tried to stand but failed, falling back against the box and starting to cry.

"Leave me alone. Please, stop." She pleaded in a half whisper, wondering why all the terror ceased to escape in her mind.

The possibilities of death flashed like a movie before her and she waited to feel that unbearable pain she had waited for all her life without really knowing why. But this was worse than when she broke her arm falling down the stairs when she was young. And it was far worse than when she caught pneumonia and her lungs felt like they were about to break. This fierce and unconceivable pain grew hard along her spine and splintered like ice through her body, the center of it all throbbing inside her stomach. She felt as though she would pop if she moved, her back arched against the box, belly up towards the sky where she prayed for life and blessed herself over and over again. The pain cracking at her back like a whip. She felt cold along her stomach, barely able to move her arms without crying out more.

How come nobody could hear her? How come she couldn't just die and get the pain over with? She was done trying to twist in a position where the cramp would go away. And just as she shut her eyes, dreaming of cloud shapes and laughing suns, the terror turned her inside out. She rolled heavily off the box and onto the floor, demanding to know whether the anger or sadness was greater inside her weak body. When she opened her eyes she could see within the dark. As if God had given her vision in dark places. The light was shattered against the cold ground and she parted her lips to cry one final time. But she stopped, watching the spilling of books, feathers, magazine clippings, and small religious statuettes fall to the floor beside her.

The tears were drying on her face fast and she pretended not to move. Maybe if she just stopped everything, they would leave her alone. They who? Why did she have the feeling someone had done this to her? Not out of hurt or anger, but happiness and vigil. To prove there was better things in life than hurt and pain. So she stopped, leading her left hand along a zigzag path towards the nearest book. It burned her hand as she touched it's broken binding. As she dragged it nearer she felt a sudden power immerse within her. All the pain draining from her body as if it had forgotten about mutilation.

She gathered her body near the box, her spine limp and causing her to slouch tremendously as she tried sitting on her knees. But she was successful and pawed at the book in her left hand until it was before her.

It was beautiful, covered in immaculate designs hand drawn with scribbles all over it's cover. She dared to open it, worried the binding might completely fall off. But when her tender blue eyes still wet with tears followed the written words along the first page, a fire inside her burned so bright they melted away. And there before her was a new life, filled in the pages of one simple book. All the answers she had ever wanted to know where lying here in this dingy attic all along.

Leslie pressed the pages, smelling the sweetness of old perfumes and sunny days. The blades of grass and pressed flowers between the pages. Stickers and colored lip prints all along them. And in the middle amazing poetry that sent innocent goose bumps along her arms and legs.

This attic. That room. These stories held in each one of these books kept by these five ghosts. This was all her life. It was going to be a long hard road to get where she wanted to go, she realized. Fall in love, have children, be an amazing writer. What was she really looking forward too? It was going to be so hard, she thought.

And besides, Cecilia had other plans for her.