Deadly Decision (3 page)

The attic windows looked like black eyes staring at me. Dust danced in the light from the exposed bulbs, giving the impression of another of Ted's paintings come to life. Ancient dirt meets modern art.

Even before my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I knew nothing lurked in the corner. No boys, no blanket, no chain.

My breath rolled from my chest like a wave over a flood-wall.

Trina pushed against me and I moved up the last step so she and Ted could reach the attic.

“Do you see anything?” she whispered.

“No.” Had it been my imagination? The thought grated against my rational mind.

“Are you OK?” Trina asked.

I smiled and squeezed her hand.

“If you're sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“OK then.” She followed Ted to the back of the attic. I stayed by the stairs, pondering the potential of having had a hallucination. It would mean I was potentially insane, but more importantly it would mean the Bible was true, and God could remain on His throne.

Ted bent over and looked at the floor. “Bill, come take a look at this.” He pointed to a spot under the eaves, near the roofline. “Right here, see these threads? What color was the blanket you saw?”

The sandwich and iced tea squeezed into my throat. “Those could be from anything,”

“But what about the blanket?”

Cold sweat replaced hot perspiration. I mopped my hand across my face. It hurt to think. G
reen fibers trapped in a splinter of wood
. My lungs collapsed, leaving me with barely enough air to speak. “I'm not sure.”

Wrenching my eyes away from the threads, I focused on the chisel-shaped boards overhead. Old wood, a row of rusty eye bolts, one with fresh scrapes…

Images of the boy…chain around his neck…the fleetingly familiar child standing over him….

Fiber...bolt…

I staggered across the attic and stumbled down the steps. Leaning heavily against the hallway wall, I slid to the floor.

Trina followed me. Her warm body comforted me as she sat with her body pressing against mine. I felt her take my hand in hers.

A minute or so later, Ted came down the stairs, shut the attic door, and wiped the sweat off his face. He slumped to the floor across from us. “So this puts a new spin on things.”

I stared at him, unable to answer. Not even one of my pithy remarks surfaced. My internal conflict grew until it felt like my skull would explode. I had seen the ghosts of two children - the bolt and fibers proved it. But I couldn't have. Spirits of humans do not linger. Then I must have seen demons. No!

One issue had been resolved: I didn't imagine it.

Questions pounded at my brain, each demanding attention, clawing over each other until I could no longer separate one from the other. Someone had been imprisoned in the attic. Who had he been? What role did the other boy play? Why did he look familiar? Why had Trina and Ted not seen them?

And what about my nightmares? All those years, the same scenario, over and over. Never a change. What had caused my subconscious to connect the dream to the ghost boys?

“So what are we going to do?” Trina whispered.

Ted's eyes held those of his wife as he rubbed his jaw with his finger. “Jimmy has been in the attic. We have proof.”

Elongated shadows stretched across the floor. Cognitively I knew they were images of our bodies blocking the ceiling light, but I examined each silhouette anyway before scanning the length of the hall.

Ted's words joining all the other bits and pieces caught in the tornado happening in my brain. “Jimmy has been in the attic.”

The wooden attic door loomed huge, breathing, mocking me.

‘Jimmy has been in the attic.'

Fear gripped my gut. I stumbled to my feet and fled to the stairs, Trina's footsteps close behind. The leather recliner once again became my sanctuary.

Trina and I sat in silence until Ted appeared, carrying a sheet of paper.

“Here's one of the posters Mrs. Roberts had printed.”

As I took the paper, Trina and Ted's gazes burned into me.

The photo on the poster appeared to be a school picture, hair a bit mussed, goofy grin. Even without color, I could tell the child's eyes were blue.

Ted was right. This was the boy I had seen chained in the attic. That meant Jimmy Roberts was dead, and as impossible as it was, I had seen his ghost.

My self-resolve crumbled, leaving emptiness behind. I had seen a
human
spirit.

A seed of doubt wiggled, trying to push itself into the light, but the shovel of self-reliance buried it deep. I knew what I had seen. What other explanation could there be?

It was one thing to have nightmares that disappear in the day. It is totally different to have the foundation of your values ripped from you. I felt helpless to do anything about it, and the knowledge made me sink deeper into the chair's worn cushion.

 

 

 

 

4

 

As we sat in the parlor, I remained trapped in the quagmire of my thoughts. Ted and Trina didn't speak. Even the creaks and groans inherent in a house were silent, just like the ghosts. The usual outside noises either failed to penetrate the walls of the house or refused to register in my brain. It was as though I had become part of the fabric of the house, substance filling the hole in my existence.

“I'm calling the police.”

I barely heard Ted.

Within fifteen minutes, a knock sounded on the front door, rousting me from my lethargy.

“Mr. Hancock, I'm Officer Paul Studler.”

Ted led the officer to the parlor and motioned him toward one of the chairs. I had never needed a police officer to come to my home before. One more event to add to the list of strange experiences. The wingback chair squeaked as the officer lowered his lanky frame into it. He examined each of us before pulling out his notebook. “You said you have information about the disappearance of Jimmy Roberts.”

“Actually, it was my father-in-law who saw him.”

Officer Studler jerked upright. “You
saw
Jimmy Roberts?”

I ran my hand along the top of my head and wondered about the wisdom of Ted calling the police. “I saw his ghost…”

Officer Studler slumped back into the chair and cleared his throat. “You saw a ghost.”

There was no backing down now, so I told him the whole story, including the part about the bolt and blanket fibers. Ted and Trina remained silent. After all, it was my tale to tell, my noose to stand under.

Officer Studler closed his unmarked notebook. “Did anyone else see this alleged ghost?”

I clenched my teeth, biting at the smart remark that filled my mouth. The words tasted good, but I knew the aftertaste would be bitter.

“We all saw the bolt and threads,” Ted affirmed.

Trina clutched her hands in her lap, knuckles white. Spots of red glowed on each cheek. “My dad doesn't make up stories. He'd never seen Jimmy's picture until Ted showed it to him.”

“When did you get into town, Mr…?”

“Iver. William Iver. This afternoon.”

“Did you drive through town, sir?”

“I guess so. I drove up 52 and around the square to Cashua, if that's driving through town.”

“Posters of Jimmy Roberts are hanging everywhere.”

“I didn't pay any attention; I was looking for my daughter's house.”

Officer Studler turned to Ted, “I'll have a team come over in the morning and check out the attic.”

He turned to me again. “Think about it awhile, Mr.…”

“Iver,” I hissed.

“Mr. Iver. I'm sure you'll remember seeing at least one of the posters.”

My hand itched to smack the smug look off young Officer Studler's face. What kind of a stupid name was Studler, anyway? I sent students to detention for fighting, and now I understood why they did it. His words had provoked an animal reaction in me.

The officer pushed against the arms of the chair as he rose. I watched, expecting the fragile frame to collapse under the pressure, but it held against the strain. Better than me.

“You are going to send someone over, aren't you?” Ted asked.

“Sure. In the morning. By the way, does Mrs. Roberts know?” He looked at his watch. “It's ten o'clock, but she might still be up. I can stop by her house.”

“We'll call her in the morning,” Ted said as he led the officer to the door.

We stared through the windows until the cruiser's headlights were swallowed up in the dark.

Trina yawned. “Do you think you can sleep, Dad, after all this excitement?”

I noticed the dark circles under my daughter's eyes. “I'm bone tired. I'll be asleep before you,” I lied, knowing I was too wired to close my eyes.

Ted had already carried my suitcase upstairs. When I opened the door, the air in the newly cleaned room smelled slightly of lemon, probably furniture polish. Since seeing the remainder of the house, I appreciated the work Trina had put into getting my bedroom ready. A budvase with a fresh pink rose rested on the dresser, flanked by a candle setting in the middle of a glass plate. A bit feminine for my taste, but this was Trina's touch, her attempt to make me know I was welcome. As I pulled the cool sheets over my aching body, love for my daughter mingled with the tension still present in my chest.

Physically exhausted but far from sleep, I stared at the ceiling, aware of the passing of time. Night sounds filtered through the screened window: a car on the street, the leaves moving in the trees, a dog barking in the distance. Soothing sounds.

Then other noises. I could hear the boys above me. Footsteps.

The house had not yet revealed all its secrets.

 

 

 

 

5

 

Although daylight already warmed my room, it did nothing to penetrate the chill that froze my heart. I had spent most of the night wrestling with ghosts, past and present, and woke feeling groggy and irritable.

Trina and Ted would insist I go with them to talk to Mrs. Roberts. Even though curious about the woman who had rented them this house, I preferred not to meet her under these circumstances.

How do you tell a grandmother her grandson is dead? Trina and I had been together when Nancy died. We had done our best to keep Nancy comfortable, and held her hand as she slipped from this world to the next. The act of giving had helped ease our loss. Jimmy had not had a loving family beside him as he left this life. He had died at the hand of an unknown monster. Mrs. Roberts would not have the closure that Trina and I had been given. I did not envy Ted's job of destroying all hope of a happy reunion for his landlady.

Lingering in bed, my mind worked through the attic incident, mulling over the facts as I knew them. The boys weren't demons. They just couldn't be. I knew my refusal to believe this did not make it so, but deep within the very fabric of my body, the knowledge burned true. Nor could the apparitions be human spirits, in spite of all appearances. The nightmares, the tension that haunted me, and now the ghosts: it all meant something, but what?

I tried not to think about the first boy, the one whose identity clung to the edge of my memory. He was like an itch I couldn't quite reach, and, like poison ivy, the itch got worse the more I thought about him.

My watch was on the dresser across the room, but I knew it was late, past time for me to be up. Trina had not put a clock in the room. I wondered if that was intentional. I lay on my back staring at the ceiling. Beams of light filtered through the old oak limbs outside the window and danced on the ceiling; birds sang a morning greeting. This could be a pleasant place, except…

I saw a ghost. No I didn't. I imagined it. Not true. It was a demon. Can't be.

Groaning in frustration, I rolled out of bed and struggled into my clothes. After a quick shave, I headed down the staircase to the kitchen at the back of the house.

Trina faced the sink. The narrow kitchen covered over half the back of the house. I had not given the kitchen more than a cursory glance the day before.

Old cupboards filled the space from counter to ceiling, just like at my grandmother's house. It had been my job to lift down the holiday dishes that were kept on the top shelves. There was a worn spot on the corner of Trina's cast iron sink. I wondered if past generations had kept a dish cloth draped there.

Walking into the room, I smothered a yawn and leaned over and kissed Trina's cheek. “You look like you didn't get much sleep.”

“About as much as you,” she replied. “Want some breakfast?”

“Do I smell sausage?”

“Made here locally; you'll love it.” She turned to the stove. “I've been keeping it warm for you. I'll scramble you some eggs.”

“What can I do?”

“Put bread in the toaster. Ted and I already ate, so just make enough for you.”

I looked around for the toaster, found it on the built-in hutch on the far right wall, and searched for the bread.

“What time do you think the police will show up?” I asked.

“I don't know. Last night the officer said in the morning, so I guess it could be any time.”

“They aren't going to take this seriously.”

She glanced my way, spatula coated with egg in her hand. “Why not?”

“Officer Studler aggravated me, but he made a point. Maybe I did, subconsciously, see one of the posters and my mind created the whole thing.”

“What about the fresh scratches on the bolt?”

“Anything could have scraped that bolt. What's Ted up to this morning?”

Trina narrowed her eyes. “Trying to change the subject?”

“Yes.”

Still clutching the spatula, Trina placed her hands on her hips. “You always do that when you don't want to talk about something, but we need to talk about this.”

The toaster popped and I reached for the newly browned bread. A huff came from the direction of my daughter as she turned and dished sausage and eggs onto a plate. She poured two cups of coffee and sat at the table across from me. I gave thanks for my food.