The screams never ceased. They weren’t just sobs but wails, guttural and howling, full of torment and regret.
Saige and Jasper reached the top of the stairs and took a left into the hall that led to the attic door. They followed the sounds of the weeping. It was a deep song of grief and mourning.
Saige’s fear ascended to an all-time high as she turned the handle, the door creaking on its hinges as it opened. It reminded her of screeching pipes. The staircase ahead was wooden and narrow, the steps lined with a thick coat of dust. They climbed, their feet sending clouds of grime into the air. Saige fought a sneeze. Her footfalls were quiet. Jasper’s were heavier. Some of the stairs groaned under his weight. Saige shot him a look, which he returned with a shrug.
She was terrified, but she was also torn. Listening to those gutted cries broke her heart. No one deserved to be tormented like that.
What did Frederick do to you?
The staircase became tighter the farther they ascended. At the landing, Saige gripped the dangling pull cord, which appeared to have never been replaced, the rope dry and wiry to touch. She gave Jasper a hesitant look, a last chance to turn back.
He silently nodded, but his face was damp with perspiration.
Saige counted down from three in her head and tugged the cord. Her chest felt like it could very well explode. She didn’t pull away when Jasper took her hand. She climbed the first step, then the next, her head screaming at her to turn around and flee. Wetting her lips, finding her courage, she crossed the threshold. At first, all she saw was darkness, her eyes struggling to see into the attic.
Jasper’s voice was a whisper beside her. “Why are attics always so creepy?”
She couldn’t have agreed more.
The attic is the brain of the house, filled with memories, past passions, and dreams.
And secrets.
A raw, aching scream tore through the darkness.
Jasper and Saige shone their flashlights in the direction of the sound. Objects draped in white sheets appeared intermittently in the scattered light. Together, they stepped blindly into the musty attic. Saige cast her flashlight up toward the sloping roof. Cobwebs drooped from every beam. In the distorted light, they appeared deceptively like lace catching the slivers of early sunrise. Rain dripped from damp patches in the ceiling. A drop fell onto Saige’s forehead. It was unnaturally cold.
This is no normal rain.
She’d always suspected the storm outside had nothing to do with the weather but rather the supernatural. Now she was certain of it.
A wail rose from somewhere to their left.
Jasper flinched and nearly barrelled right into Saige. He grabbed her arm, his fingers biting deep through the fabric of her jacket. She was sure he’d leave crescent bruises on her skin.
She shook her head, urging him to not make a sound.
He nodded. His eyes were bugging out of his head.
They followed the haunting cries. A sweep of their flashlights cast a muted haze across overstuffed, fraying furniture. The attic was a disorganised maze. Volumes of books had been stacked upon each other. A broken piano was covered in layers of cobwebs. Saige and Jasper started when they came across a dressmaker’s dummy, the face white and waxy, the eyes discoloured.
“Jesus. That isn’t creepy, is it?” Jasper’s voice was tense in Saige’s ear.
They passed dozens of old trunks piled on top of each other. Saige cast her light down onto the floor. Some of the boards were rotten, and those that appeared sturdy creaked beneath her boots when she stood on them. Every step she and Jasper made was met with a groan. Saige cringed, terrified that Theodosia would suddenly be upon them, a screaming banshee hellbent on tearing their bodies apart.
She’s somewhere in here.
Theodosia’s mournful cries drifted across every surface, making it difficult to know which direction they came from. Saige knew she was being watched. It was an intense feeling of awareness from somewhere behind her… then in front of her. It was moving every second. Circling. Eyes that bored into her soul, sending horrible tingling sensations all over her skin.
Jasper moved toward an object covered in a white sheet. It looked tall and sturdy enough to be human.
“Jasper, what are you doing?” Her voice came out in a frantic hiss.
She didn’t like this sudden burst of confidence he’d gained.
He tore the sheet down. A floor-length mirror met them in a cloud of disturbed dust mites, little specks dancing through the flashlights’ beams. Saige swatted the haze away. She caught a glimpse of her distorted reflection in the mirror. For a second, she could have sworn she saw a pale face by her shoulder, staring at her with lifeless eyes, but it had disappeared too fast for her to be certain.
Saige clung to the front of Jasper’s jacket and forced him away from the mirror. “Why did you do that?”
She whipped her head around in a panic, afraid something monstrous would creep up on them.
Jasper’s eyebrows shot up. “They do it in the movies. I thought maybe it might have been Theodosia and we had the upper hand… for once.”
“We never have the upper hand. Please, just don’t do anything else, okay?”
“Okay. Promise.”
She wondered if he had his fingers crossed behind his back.
Another tormented scream filled the attic. This time it sounded like the cries of a drowning woman.
Saige spun on instinct. Her scalp tightened as dread coursed through every vein and artery in her body. She gripped Jasper’s hand, afraid he’d attempt another act of bravado.
“This way,” she insisted, hating that she couldn’t keep her voice steady.
But Jasper didn’t move. He pointed to Saige’s left, his face so pale even his sun-kissed freckles had faded to a blanched white.
Saige slowly turned around. Her heart buckled, caving down to her stomach.
Crouched on the floor in the northwest corner of the attic, a woman rocked back and forth. The movement reminded Saige of a pendulum swinging chaotically out of control. She recognised the translucent, sallow skin of the wraith.
Theodosia.
The spectre was crying heart-rending sobs. Tears slipped down her discoloured cheeks, her hair a black mess of twisted curls. Every so often, her fingers hooked into the strands, tearing them out from her scalp and discarding them on the floor.
Saige found it difficult to breathe, her throat clogged with panic. Her feet seemed to take a life of their own, pacing toward the spectre without any direction from her brain. She was terrified, but she also had the strongest urge to help.
She was about five feet away from the ghost when she paused. Blood soaked thick and fast through Theodosia’s emerald gown. It spilled over the floorboards, sinking like droplets of oil through the gaps.
Theodosia reached for something ahead. Saige cast her flashlight toward it. It was a portrait, something aged and covered in a thick coating of grime. She recognised the bronzed vintage-carved frame. It was the same as the portraits downstairs in the foyer.
The missing portrait.
Saige leaned forward, perplexed by the image. It was of a handsome couple in wedding attire. Saige knew the unsmiling man. Frederick George Wolvercraft. The writing in the corner, the artist’s stamp, confirmed it. It also confirmed something that sent icy fear fluttering through her chest. The bride in the portrait was young, much younger than even Frederick, her smile full of hope and happiness. Saige recognised her face. Her cheeks drained of blood as realisation struck home.
Anna.
Only that wasn’t her name in the stamp.
Tianna Wolvercraft.
Saige leapt back. All her discoveries over the last couple days rushed at her, her thoughts frantic. She mentally brought up Theodosia’s journal entries in her head. Not once had Theodosia written “my engagement.” She’d referred to it as “the engagement.”
Saige’s shock spiralled toward despair.
Theodosia had never been writing about herself. She’d been writing about her daughter, Anna. Whose real name was Tianna.
Saige remembered the news article she’d read in Mildred’s dining room. “The engagement of Ms T Sinclair to Mr Frederick George Wolvercraft was recently made public. The wedding will take place in a private ceremony in June.”
Saige wanted to slam the heel of her palm into her head. How could she have gotten it so wrong?
“Sssaaaiiiggggeeee.”
She leapt at the sound of Theodosia’s voice. Blood seeped out from the corners of the ghost’s lips. She opened her mouth, her words barely discernible. “She… kno… she… knowwws.”
Saige felt sick. “What?”
Theodosia squeezed her eyes shut. Frightening determination settled into the rotting features of her face. Then she screamed, her voice causing Saige’s eardrums to throb. “She knows. She’s here!”
Theodosia snapped her head toward Jasper, pointing a crooked finger at him.
A blast of wind lifted him off his feet, slamming him against a wall. He dropped onto the floor, paralysed with shock.
Saige cried out and ran to him, horrified when an invisible force dragged him across the floor, thrashing him about like a human piñata. The closer she got to him, the farther he was hauled away. She didn’t care that she collided with discarded furniture or knocked-over boxes. Papers and old bundles of newspaper were strewn in front of her, creating obstacles in her path.
She came to the end of the attic and froze. Jasper was in the air, his head down and arms outstretched, as though he’d been crucified on an invisible cross.
“Jasper. Oh God, Jasper!” She searched for something to help get him down.
“Saige.”
She swivelled on the balls of her feet, surprised by the voice. Alarm crossed her face, shock settling into despair. “Anna!”
And that was when I struck her hard across the head.
She toppled back, her body rigid on the floor. Her glassy eyes stared at me for a second longer, her mind desperate to remain conscious. Dull acceptance glinted on her sweaty face. “H-How?”
I didn’t answer.
Then her eyes shut, her consciousness swallowed by the dark.