The Attic (Completed)

Prologue

Auguste Kline struggled to turn the key in the lock, willing his gnarled fingers to cooperate.

The room was dark, save for a checkered stream of moonlight coming in from a lattice window.

He couldn't see the lock in the trunk before him—could only feel it—but a satisfying click assured him the deed was done. An exhale escaped his aching lungs and he wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand. Shifting his weight off his bad leg, he straightened up from his knees to a standing position.

Noting only the vague outlines of what he knew to be stacked crates, boxes and long-forgotten furniture, Auguste tightened the grip on his cane and shuffled across the wooden floorboards—using his outstretched free hand to seek out the door. When he reached it, he paused. Listened for any sound.

Aside from his own rasping lungs, all was still and silent. Not even a mouse stirred within the walls.

But he was not alone.

With a low grunt, the old man shifted his bones into motion and reached for the doorknob. His gut churned.

There was a presence nearby.

Behind him.

The hairs on the back of his neck bristled like a startled porcupine and he spun around, nearly dropping his cane and falling. He pressed his full weight into the cane for balance and managed to still his knocking knees, straining to see through the darkness before him. "Who-who's there?" he asked.

There was neither response nor shifting shadow.

Had he imagined the presence then? It must have been the fear clouding his senses. He turned around, the sole of his cane thumping on the floor beneath him, and turned the cold knob, pushing the door forward. He squinted as he entered the dark stairwell beyond. Another lattice window above the descending stairs lit an area of the floor with more checkered moonlight.

A footfall sounded from within the room behind him.

His heart slammed against his ribs, pounding out of control. For a moment he was too terrified to move and his cane slid from his icy finger tips, hitting the floor with a thwack.

Silence screamed in his ears and chills tripped up and down his back, along with a frantic need to flee. He scrambled toward the staircase, nearly tripping over his abandoned cane in his haste, and latched onto the primitive wood railing, teetering on every step as his bad leg buckled with the movement.

He made it down a half-dozen steps, not daring to look behind him, when an upper stair creaked—suggesting a heavy weight. Lurching forward, he gasped for breath and wished he could dive down the rest of the stairwell.

Only a handful of stairs remained and with every ounce of remaining strength, he tore down them, doubling over when he reached the bottom as though he'd been punched in the gut. His heart constricted violently in his chest and a cry slipped from his lips.

Senses whirling, he stumbled toward the closed wall panel that lead to the hallway, expecting to be grabbed from behind with every step. But there came no more sound on the stairs—only his own shoes scuffing the floorboards. Smacking his fist against the wall, the door panel slid open with a swish and he dove through, falling to the floor in a wheezing heap.

Too weak and palsied to get back up on his feet, he dragged himself by his forearms down the long dark hallway, knowing his flight was futile but unwilling to surrender. His heart surged with another wave of pain and he knew his time was running out. Pausing to catch his breath, he fumbled through his jacket pocket and pulled out an elongated key. He cricked his neck and shot a glance over his shoulder at the shadowed opening in the wall.

All was still, unmoving.

He hid the key where he was sure no one would find it and collapsed on his stomach . . . arms and legs growing cold, then numb. Sucking in as much air as possible, he rolled onto his back with a grunt and tried to lean on one elbow, watching the opening in the wall. He was too weak to move any further.

A footfall sounded, ever-so-faintly, from within the black square that was the opening in the wall.

At the opposite end of the hallway, two floor-to-ceiling windows permitted twin beams of sallow moonlight, which flowed over the old man as he balanced on one elbow, clutching his heart.

A tall figure emerged from the opening but did not step into the beams of light.

"What do you want from me," Auguste cried, his voice barely a whisper.

A roaring silence.

"Your life," came the low, toneless response.

In a swift, calculated movement, the shadowed figure stepped into the moonlight and the old man's throat closed in horror. Paralyzing pain shot through his right arm and his heart gave its last beat.

With one final cry, his elbow gave out and he fell backward, head thudding against the hardwood beneath him.

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