perils with writing and whatnot
I promised that you’d be reading the ending of this story this week. After all, this coming Friday is Halloween.
If you haven’t read part 2 of this story, you can find it here.
Still need to read part 1? Here it is.
The kids hesitantly crept up the hall. Kathy peered into the second room. All that was in there was a rocking chair sitting next to the window that didn’t have either a shade or drapes on it.
Allen took the flashlight from Kathy and walked up the corridor to the doorway of the third room. Looking in, he saw it was a bedroom complete with a double bed, a chest of drawers, a nightstand and a vanity. There was even a worn shade on the window.
He tiptoed into the room and went toward the door that stood near to the window. When he opened it, he expected to see the inside of a closet. However, what he found was a staircase leading up to what he assumed was a third floor. Turning his head slightly, he yelled, “Hey you guys, come here. There’s a third floor.”
The shoes feet of the other two sounded like wild elephants running up the hall. Dean slid into the door trying to make his turn too sharp. Kathy came to a grinding halt holding onto the door frame.
Rap, rap, rap.
There it was again and it was still coming from up above them. It was louder now but not as thundery as one may expect seeing they were ten feet higher and closer to it now.
“It’s got to be a bird, squirrel or some other small animal,” Kathy said.
Allen looked skeptical. “This high up it could be something hitting the house because of the wind blowing.”
“But there isn’t that much wind, Allen,” Dean said glancing up at the ceiling. “I just hope it isn’t an animal that has rabies or is just plain mean.” Allen frowned.
“Yeah, I didn’t even think about that,” Kathy said.
“Well, we’re not going to find out what it is standing here. Upward and onward,” Allen said using the flashlight as a baton.
The staircase was narrow so they had to climb single file. The boards creaked with each step they took. At the top was a door.
Allen turned the knob. It wouldn’t budge. Kathy, being at the end of the line was eye-level to the stair that Allen stood on. As she stood there waiting for Allen to do something, anything in fact, she looked straight ahead daydreaming. Someplace in between her thoughts, she glanced into the left dark corner of that stair. There in the dust she saw something that looked like metal.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Dean asked as he felt Kathy’s hand brush against his leg.
Kathy picked the object up. “I believe I just found the key for the door.” She handed it up to Allen.
Allen had to twist and turn the key in the lock some but it did open the door. Dust came rolling out on the breeze of air that the moving door had created. All of them coughed in unison.
Once past the door, Dean said, “This really isn’t a third floor you know. It’s the attic.” Looking above, he pointed to the rafters. The one window the entire floor had faced east. The little bit of light it provided from the moon coming up wasn’t enough to consider turning off the flashlight.
Now the rapping was loud. “RAP, RAP, RAP!” It came from the northeast corner. The three kids just stood where they were looking from one to the other with different degrees of fear in their faces. The the surprise of Allen and Kathy, it was Dean who got up the courage to creep toward the dark corner.
There sat a box, one that someone might use for storing things in. It was approximately four feet long and wide. Dean put his fingers under the lip of the lid and lifted. Something seemed to be keeping it closed. He felt along the edge of the lid discovering scotch tape every once in a while.
RAP, RAP, RAP!
Kathy and Allen finally mustered up the courage to join Dean. All of them broke the seals of the scotch tape.
Dean opened the box. There inside, they finally saw what was making the racket.
Chances are my cousin wasn’t the first or only one to create this story. Still, I like thinking that he was imaginative enough to believe that he was the first.
Where irrationality trumps reason
Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers. - Isaac Asimov
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