When I was younger, just on the cusp of being a teenager, my sister and I were in the attic. We were hunting for some old toys we had stored up there that we wanted to pull out and give a run for their money. It was a simply designed attic; old floor boards, steepled roof, everything bare to the eye. That’s why it was so bizarre when we noticed the small cubby door on one of the walls, logically leading to what would have been the outside of the building.
Being the curious creatures we were, we just had to open it. The long and narrow crawlspace we discovered defied imagination; how was it possible for it to be there? It violated everything our young minds knew about space and architecture, and so I ran off to get my dad while my sister stayed and watched it just to make sure it did not disappear while I was away.
When I came back with him, he was just as stunned as we were with the discovery. After pondering it for a short while, we all knew there really was not any choice; we had to know what was in there. Getting down on our hands and knees, we went inside to investigate the seeming impossibility. We found more attic. The same décor, just more walls, and a much, much larger space, filled with shelves and storage containers. It was utterly fascinating that it was filled with all manner of things; art, tools, appliances. We wondered how it had all gotten there. Some of it could not have even physically been brought in unless it had been built from scratch in that space, or the building was erected around it, such as a matching washer and dryer.
But even stranger yet was that my father began to recognize the things stored there. Things he had lost. Things he had thrown away over the years, renewed and in prime condition. These were his things, from the years of his life. It was amazing. We vowed to come back in the morning and remove everything we could, because there was so much history, nostalgia, and genuinely useful objects held there.
The next day came, and for some reason, we all seemed just far to busy to go back; ‘it will be there tomorrow’, we all said. And the next day. And the day after that, we barely even thought about it, as it slipped away from our minds like fog. Before too long, only a few weeks out, I was convinced I had dreamed the entire thing, and no one spoke on it anymore. I did not even bother looking in the attic, that was how far removed from reality the idea was.
Time passed, and my sister and I grew into our twenties. We both moved away, and she had kids of her own, both of us married. Unfortunately, tragedy struck, and my father fell ill. We both had to return to care for him, and prepare his estate for the inevitable conclusion of his terminal disease.
It probably comes as no surprise that this put us both in the attic again; many things needed to be organized and removed. And it probably comes as no surprise that when we were there, we stumbled across that same cubby door we had seen more than a decade prior, and in that instant, we looked at each other and remembered. We could see it in each others’ eyes; we had both forgotten for no reason. We were determined to not let it go to waste again. I told my sister I was going to go get some boxes so we could start moving things out, and she agreed to go inside and start gathering what she could to bring out.
I had just left the attic when my phone rang. Answering it, my mother came on from the other end in hysterics. My father had just passed away. I went back up to get my sister after hanging up, no longer concerned with pilfering the strange room, numb from shock. Except, the door was gone. I stared at the wall where it had been, feeling the terror of betrayal. I began to scream and yell hysterically for my sister, but there was no answer. I clawed at the wall, and took a hammer to it, only to eventually break through to the aluminum siding of the house, creating a hole I would later have to patch to sell the building.
I had no idea what to do. I did not even think I could realistically call the police; I had no idea what to tell them. Eventually I gathered myself up and went to the hospital to be with the rest of my family, expecting them to ask where my sister was.
They never did.
Not even her husband.
Ever.
A few years have passed since then. Every once in a while, I see pictures of my sister around my house, and I remember that once upon a time, she existed. Sometimes I think I made her up, or that I’m misremembering a stranger’s face in those old photos. No one ever came looking for her, no police, not her job. No one acknowledged she was missing. When I would ask my mother, she would stare blankly at me, and after some prodding, slowly nod. She remembered, yes, I had a sister. And that was as interested as she got. My sister’s husband gave me much the same reaction; he would ask me who I was talking about when I mentioned her name. Eventually he would concede that he seemed to recall being married at some point, and his lack of conviction would make me think I made it all up. I probably did. Either way, he has a new girlfriend, and his children are calling her mom. They never missed a beat.
But sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night because I hear someone walking in my attic. I hear a voice I think I recognize, but I can’t place who it belongs to anymore. She asks for me to help her, but I don’t even know why I would be helping her, or what I’m helping her do. Either way, she’s in the attic, and there is nothing in my attic, so it must be my imagination.
I just wish I would stop hearing her voice after I wake up.
—
Credits to: FenrirSM
Comments