Page 3 of A Silence So Divine

I squint into the darkness to place the piece of the frame back over the keyhole, but it slips from my fingers.Shit. Squatting down, my fingers flutter over the wooden floorboards,searching. Something metallic and coarse with rust grazes the edge of my pinky.No way.

The bronze piece is split down the middle; a box with a slide top. Clever. But why hide the key within the secret door? Unless they were more concerned about keeping somethinginthan they were keeping somethingout. Ew, fuck, I have the heebie jeebies all over again.

My palms join my armpits in the race of who can sweat the most. I rub them on the front of my pants while I weigh my options. What if there’s a rabid animal in there? Or dead bodies?

“Or what if there’s a million dollars?”I sign to myself, the little devil on my shoulder doing all the talking.

“Hmmm… okay. You’ve convinced me.”

Feeling giddy, I thrust the key into the lock. The weight of the door has it swinging itself open. Great—more stairs. There’s a glimmer of light at the top, and I tell myself that’s a good thing. With a deep breath, I hold tight to my nerve and take the stairs two at a time.

As I get closer to the light, an odor begins to flood my nostrils. It smells like wet wood, dust, and waste. And to be clear, by “waste”, I mean piss and shit. Lord help me, if there’s actually an animal up here, I’ll faint.

I was really hoping for the million dollars.

The light source is a dust coated window. Wood slatted ceilings covered with cobwebs greet me as I near the landing. I’m standing in the middle of an attic-turned-bedroom. Pipes and insulation adorn the walls, and there’s a twin bed on a wrought iron frame with dingy white bedding. In the far corner is a clawfoot bathtub and a toilet, but no door to separate the restroom from the “bedroom”. There are drawings stuck to some of the wooden beams. Was this a child’s room? That’s… depressing.

The odor is nearly unbearable, urging me to bury my nose in the cotton of my shirt as I begin my exploration.

I wander around the room, touching things as I go. There’s a well loved bible on a nightstand, the pages wrinkled and spine broken. To the right of the bed is the lone window that looks out over the pond. Double paned and in the shape of a hexagon, it’s unable to be opened. Which is a shame, because some fresh air would do wonders in this place.

Something crunches beneath my foot. I lift it to see an empty box of crackers. Now that I notice it, there’s trash all along the floor. Canned peaches, crackers, a jar of peanut butter, tuna tins. A variety of foods litter the space, mostly nonperishables. I would think squatters found their way up here, but how would they lock themselves in?

A feeling of unease churns in my gut. I do a quick scan of the room, frantically searching for an intruder. I figured the smell was from vermin but if someone islivingup here…

Turning in a half circle, I startle when I catch sight of a man. Upon further inspection, the man is me, and a mirror is propped up against the wall. With an eye roll, I raise a hand to my hammering chest. I must have left all that bravery at the bottom of the stairs.

Closing my eyes, I take a moment to slow my breathing and gather myself.Reel it in, Creed, seriously.

Once my eyes flutter open, I glance at the bed behind me. This time, my heart truly does stop.

Between the flooring and the bottom of the mattress, I can barely make out what appears to be a sliver of pale skin. Rounding as quickly as I can without tripping over my feet, I drop to the floor to see if I’ve officially lost my mind.

I’m met with wide eyes and a mess of dark hair.

Much worse than a raccoon.

I let out a startled yell and hurry to stand, the figure slipping out from beneath the bed and running to the opposite end of the room. A girl, alivegirl, stares at me and backs toward the bathtub. She grabs what’s closest to her, a hairbrush, and points it at me threateningly. My hands shoot up in defense. Not that I’m worried she’ll brush my hair to death, but if she’s as feral as she looks, I won’t take any chances. At a loss, I furiously sign“sorry”against my chest. She looks as terrified as I feel, eyes ping ponging between my face and hands. I watch her lips, but she keeps her mouth in a firm line.

I’m sure I could hold my own; she looks too weak to do much of anything. But I don’t reallywantto.

My brain’s screaming at me to flee, but I can’t leave a random girl in the attic and carry on with my day. I havesomemorals.

I snatch a paper from the wall and a broken blue crayon from the floor.

My hands tremble so fiercely that the words are mostly scribbles, but I hold the paper up and pray she’s literate.

WON’T HURT YOU

The anguish only seems to worsen as she shakes her head back and forth. She points a finger at herself and then at me three times in a row. My eyebrows furrow in confusion.

I glance at the staircase, surprised Cecil hasn’t heard the commotion and come running. We must be really far from the living area of the house. That is both a relief and much,muchmore unnerving.

Lips tucked into her mouth, she gnaws at them. A single crimson line slides down her chin. My own lips slip into a frown at the sight.

She points at the words, then at herself, and me again. Realization dawns on me.

YOU HURT ME?