Lost and Found

Chapter 2 - The Attic

Nya scrambled up the ladder so fast she almost tripped on the last rung. Balancing herself she straightened her back, hitting her head on the low ceiling.

"Ow," she said rubbing her head and glaring at the wooden beam above her. She looked around the room, the floorboards creaking under her feet as she turned slowly in a circle, her back slightly bent. 

It was a typical attic. Cardboard boxes were stacked against a wall, an old wooden desk sat in the middle like an island with an ancient typewriter on top, paper still in place with a mug lying next to it on its side, like the person writing had left in a hurry and knocked it over. Spiderwebs hung everywhere and it stunk like dead rats. Which there probably was. A telescope peeked through the tiny window at the end of the room.

Hang on. Window? Nya had lived in this house all her life and she knew there had never been a window there before. Cripes, she didn't even know they had an attic... In fact, she was sure she would have found it before now. She had explored every single part of her house, and now she thought of it, there had never been any marks on the ceiling to suggest an attic, and she'd looked up at Lloyd a lot.

Nya was wary now. She had read enough books to know that if something seemed strange at first, it was probably going to get a whole lot weirder. Especially in the case of hidden attics. Cautiously, Nya stepped over to the desk. There was so much dust coating the top she was sure some ants had drowned trying to swim through it. Strangely enough, the typewriter seemed to be sparkling clean, as if someone had just dusted it.

Someone. Nya quickly looked around the room. It had never occurred to her before, but... No. It would be impossible. Anyway there were no hiding places here. The boxes were stacked right up against the walls and everything else was out in the open. But Nya was beginning to question the concept of 'impossible'.

She bent over the typewriter and realised that there were words inked on the paper, faint but still visible. 

'A roar thundered through the forest, and birds leapt out  the tall pine trees, flying away into the distance. Heavy footsteps shook the undergrowth, but the explorer stood his ground. He would be the first to -'

There was no more. The person who wrote this must have been a fiction author, Nya concluded, but there wasn't any other papers for the other parts of the story. Or it could be non-fiction, a real explorer's personal experiences, she reasoned. The thought of someone with such an interesting life working in this room excited her. Maybe she could make this her own personal haven to write stories too? The person who used to be here were obviously long gone.

But Nya hesitated before touching the typewriter. Something in her, the bit that knew stories the best, said 'No, haven't you learnt anything? Don't touch it! It's probably magic you nincompoop!'.

'Alright, calm your farm! There's no magic in this world' she responded inside her head, but Nya didn't touch the typewriter. Instead she walked over and looked out of the window. She could see her street below with busy cars and her dad hanging out the washing along the side of the house. How could she have not seen that window before?

Pushing it to the back of her mind, Nya peeked through the telescope and gasped. She did not see her street with occupied people walking to and fro but a lush green forest, with tall pine trees and birds flying from branch to branch. Nya quickly stood back and looked through the window again. It still showed the gloomy day outside and she could hear the rush of cars and people. 

Slowly, she peeked back through the telescope. It showed the deep green forest and she could almost feel the buzz of energy and aliveness of it. Nya stood back. it must be a trick, an illusion. There's no way, no way... She had to tell her dad. She had to tell someone! 

Nya turned quickly and ran at the speed of light through the room and down the still open ladder, not realising that she bumped the desk as she went past, dislodging the paper in the typewriter so it flitted to the ground.