Ghosts Of The Attic

3. Help

3

     Whirling around, I turned to face at nothing, absolutely nothing. After hopping off the rock, my eyes scanned the area, looking for anyone. A sudden shiver went down my spine although it wasn’t from the sea breeze; it was the kind of shiver you get when someone was watching you.

     “Who’s there?” I shouted.

     With a grim silence as my answer, I scurried up the pathway, thoughts running through my mind. It was just a trick of the mind, I rationalized. You’re just hearing things. Content with my answer, I didn’t bother to look back when a soft voice tried to whisper something to me instead I blocked it out, whatever it was. As my mind was placed elsewhere, I hadn’t notice how Osiris was slipping in between my legs as I walked until I had stumbled over him and caught myself.

     “Damn it,” I muttered at the cat. “Leave me alone!”

     He hissed at me before running back towards the beach.

     “You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” the lyrical voice chided. “He was trying to brighten your mood.”

     You’re imagining things. It’s not real.

     “Please listen to me.”

     It’s not real.

     “I can help you.”

     Enough! I stopped at the backdoor, hand on the doorknob.

     “You’re not real,” I stated, “so you can’t help me.”

     And I walked inside, leaving the voice behind me. But there was something itching inside me, wanting me to go back and talk to it. Although the logical side of me was yelling at me, chastising me for even acknowledging the voice. You’re not going back to St. Ophelia’s!

     “Lucas, can I talk to you for a moment?”

     “What?” I snapped, turning my head.

     My mother jumped in her spot, frightened. A stack of papers sat in front of her as she continued to stare at me, eyes wide. My face went slack, the color draining out of my face even more now. Taking a deep breath, I murmured an apology.

     “Lucas, are you okay?” she inquired, preparing to stand up.

     “Fine, fine,” I replied. “Why wouldn’t I be? I mean…you know nothing happened. I’m fine, perfectly fine.”

     “Sweetie, you’re beginning to ramble. You always do that when you’re nervous.”

     “Why would I be nervous?”

     “Did your father tell you already?” From the look on her face as I squinted my eyes, I knew she regretted what she said.

     “What are you talking about?” I inquired.

     “Do you remember why they allowed the tutor at St. Ophelia’s?”

     “No, I don’t recall.”

     She began to play with the papers in front of her, thumbing through them while biting her lip. “It was so that when we finally decided to pull you out of the hospital, you wouldn’t be behind when you got back to school.”

     I stared at her, stunned. She couldn’t be serious. I couldn’t go back to school after all I was branded a murderer and not to mention the fact I was locked up in a mental hospital. Silence filled the space between us as the words sunk in deeper and deeper. In the distance, I could hear the telephone ringing, but we didn’t bother to answer it.