Chapter 6 - The Attic Stairs
The heavy slam of the police cruiser door echoing down the street felt like a gunshot in the tense afternoon air. Officer Vance drove away, leaving the rookie officer behind to secure the perimeter and prevent anyone from entering the house. Clara stood frozen on the porch, her bright yellow sparkly dress covered in dust and mud, her mind racing over Arthur’s chilling final words.
Check the attic before you celebrate.
Elena was sobbing quietly on the bottom step, her black dress ruined, clutching the cracked photograph of her mother as if it were a shield against the mounting horrors of the day.
"He's lying," Elena choked out, wiping her face with a stained sleeve. "He’s just trying to tear us apart one last time before they lock him away forever. Don't go up there, Clara. Leave it alone."
Clara ignored her. The bitter hatred that had fueled her for decades surged back through her veins, overriding any sense of caution. She pushed past the rookie officer stationed at the door, ignoring his half-hearted protests, and strode down the dark hallway until she reached the narrow, hidden door beneath the main staircase.
She pulled the brass latch. It gave way with a loud, rusty pop.
A steep, wooden staircase led upward into absolute darkness, smelling strongly of old cedar, dried lavender, and something metallic and sharp. Clara reached out, flicking the wall switch near the doorframe. A single, naked yellow bulb flickered to life at the top of the stairs, casting long, distorted shadows against the slanted ceiling.
"Clara, don't!" Elena yelled from the hallway, finally getting to her feet and following her up to the threshold. "We shouldn't be here without a warrant! The police are coming back!"
"Let them come," Clara snapped back, her voice echoing in the confined space. "I've waited thirty years for this."
Clara placed her high heel on the first wooden step, the wood groaning loudly under her weight. She climbed steadily, her hand trailing along the dusty wallpaper until she reached the top landing.
The attic was massive, stretching the entire length of the suburban house. Trunks, old furniture, and rolled-up rugs lined the walls. But in the exact center of the room sat a single, modern wooden rocking chair, and resting on the seat of the chair was a heavy, locked iron strongbox.
Clara approached the box slowly, her breath catching in her throat. She knelt down in the dust, ignoring how it stained her expensive dress. She ran her fingers over the rusted combination dial.
May you like
Suddenly, a loud, heavy thud echoed from directly beneath the floorboards near her feet, sounding unmistakably like someone knocking from inside the ceiling of the room below.
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