The Attic

 

It wouldn't have been so spooky to me if it hadn't been for the head. It sat there expressionless, but somehow threatening, waiting patiently to come to life and fulfill some kind of evil purpose. For my brother it was the rattlesnake.

With the warm light of day shining through the dormer Window, the third story attic was a treasure house of wonderful things. Full Indian war bonnets, a tomahawk, crystals and minerals, ten-gallon cowboy hats, a bullwhip and a huge rattlesnake skin hanging from floor to ceiling; souvenirs from all over the country; collected by grandfather before he died. There was an old pump organ in the corner and it's off-key moaning could make our hair stand on end, even in the friendly light of day.

My little brother John and I were told to sleep in the attic when we visited grandmother's house. Our beds were made under the sloping paneled ceilings, and were surrounded by the shelves and cabinets full of grandfather Ferry's memorabilia. We were welcome to look at the collection, but not to play with any of the pieces. Except the organ - it was old and leaky, and grandmother said she was going to have it hauled away when she got around to it. We were free to play with it, no matter how much the eerie sounds scared us, or how long into the night they echoed around the museum-like room.

My cousin Tom and his mother lived with grandmother, and his bedroom was at the foot of the attic stairs. He was my age and I had confided in him about our fear of the attic. "Aw, there's nothing up there to be afraid of," he said, "grandmother keeps it locked up most of the time, so I can't even play there. You guys don't know how lucky you are, there's all kinds of neat things stored away in the drawers!"

On an Oak cabinet overlooking my bed sat the head. It was the bronze head of a woman; her hair piled on her head in smooth waves, her eyes closed as if she were dreaming and a look of sadness on her beautiful metal face.

In the night as I lay trembling under the covers, I knew she opened her eyes and looked down at me, and her face was no longer sad, but incredibly angry. I could see her eyes in the darkness, burning through the blanket I had pulled over my head, even through my closed eyelids. My brother tossed and moaned, dreaming snake nightmares. The next morning I turned the heavy bronze bust around so it faced the wall, but that night when we climbed the stairs to go to bed, I saw that grandmother had turned it back.

A scraping noise woke me from a restless sleep and then a hideous face appeared over me. My heart stopped until I realized that it was just Tom with a flashlight under his chin. "Gotcha!" He said, climbing onto the bed and turning off the light. I punched his shoulder for scaring me and we were giggling about it when John's voice came from across the room, "Hey you guys," he whispered, "be quiet, I hear something!"

A loud buzzing noise began to fill the air and Tom turned the flashlight on. The beam of light searched across the hardwood floor until it came to rest on the source of the noise; a huge Diamondback Rattlesnake lay coiled in the middle of the room, its head raised, a hissing sound coming from between its dripping fangs. Its tail was a blur of motion, rattling a warning of death. Tom jerked back in terror, and the light illuminated more horrors; an Indian with a skull face, wearing the war bonnet and wielding the tomahawk, and beside him a skeleton cowboy with the bullwhip raised to strike. Then a voice dripping with malevolence came from the cabinet above us, "Well, well! Look at the tender little boys!" Tom pointed the shaking light up at the bronze head. Its once placid face was a grimace of evil, the eyes looking down at us, its mouth opening to reveal sharp pointed teeth.

We all found our voices together and screamed in unison. We were still screaming when the overhead light came on and Grandmother shushed us. "What's the matter with you boys," she said, "this is just an ordinary attic. See, there's nothing here!" Sure enough, when we opened our eyes the snakeskin was back on the wall, the tomahawk, war bonnet and bullwhip were resting innocently in their places, and the head just had the face of a sad woman.

With the attic door securely locked by grandmother, the three of us crowded into Tom's bed downstairs and said goodnight. After grandmother closed the bedroom door, I quietly got up and jammed a chair under the attic doorknob. Just in case.