The trapdoor leading to the attic hung on upward swinging hinges like a submarine hatch. Wyatt lifted his arms over his head and pushed. Slow creaking. A sifting of gray dust sprinkled down. He felt it on his face; his eyes tearing up. He sneezed. Itchiness burrowed down under his collar. His scalp prickled. He gripped the unpainted wooden supports. Brown-eyed plywood knotholes stared at him. The area around them rotted with shadows. Chill air cascaded down like an invisible waterfall. He climbed through it.
The ladder wobbled slightly as he pivoted off into the rafters.
“Okay, come up,” Wyatt called down to Adam. “You’d better ...”
His voice trailed off.
Had something shifted away from him, or was it the unfamiliar pressure of his weight making the boards moan?
Below, Adam’s Snake Light clicked on. The beam dazzled him.
Wyatt moved away from the opening.
The attic wasn’t used for storage. It was dead space. There were no internal walls, only wooden beams—the exposed skeleton of the motel—and metal piping for electricity and ventilation. Instead of a floor, he saw the heads of two-by-sixes, row after row of candy-pink insulation. The external cinderblock walls. It smelled like a tomb. Despite the ladder, Wyatt had the strangest sensation of descent. The inversion made him dizzy. His eyes were adjusting
to the mix of strong directed light and heavy shadows. An underground quality persisted.
It’s the low ceiling that makes it feel like a cave.
That, and no windows.
Claustrophobia squirmed against his logic. Fear of entrapment lit circuitry in a jungle remnant of his brain. He planted his feet apart on a beam. His thigh muscles tensed as he balanced. Off to his left, the ladder wiggled and squeaked.
Adam’s grinning face pierced the square hole. He braced his elbows on either side of the cutout and leveled his light.
“I can’t seeeeee you. ...”
Was it exertion that made him appear that way? Or pain? The blood smeared his face like ghoulish makeup. His eyes were wet. Did dust or emotion make his son cry? Was it Adam who scampered half-in, half-out of the hole?
Wyatt put up a hand to shield his blinking eyes.
“That’s better,” Adam said.
Wyatt turned away from the glare.
A bulky figure cloaked in white loomed in front of him.
Adam clicked off his light.
Wyatt startled. Nothing more than an involuntary jump back from the large irregular shape. But it was enough movement to disrupt his balance. One boot sole pressed down, one kicked air. Arms wheeling. He slammed his elbows out, wedging between two roof supports. His Maglite sliced a crazed arc across the rafters. Then it was gone from his hand. He fought for a handhold. Layers of dust, thick as fur, made slippery contact. Rough wood bit his palms.
What had he seen?
There and gone in an instant. So close.
He looked again. But the resealed darkness gave no answers.
Silence.
He waited for a deathblow.
Held his breath.
Waited.
The trip-hammer of his heart pounded. A strong forearm wrapped around his chest. He struggled as someone hauled him backward into the attic loft.
“Easy,” said a whisper in his ear.
Then, “Keep quiet.”
The arm released him. He wanted to dive back down through the trapdoor. To retreat. Escape. But he didn’t. A faint glow to his left. There, in a nest of insulation beside the trapdoor, was his Maglite. He reached for it. Came up short by a few inches. He crawled to the edge of the trapdoor. Stretched and retrieved the light. Ready to strike with it. But a hand quickly covered his beam. The fingers cupping the lens turned blood-red.
It was his son’s hand.
Adam guided the hooded Maglite, subtly illuminating the looming figure before them. Milky plastic sheeting, partially torn away from staples in the ceiling, hung like a man-sized spiderweb. Or a white cloak.
Reflected light bounced back at them. Wyatt squinted. He saw the plastic shroud shiver as a frigid breeze passed behind it. His son thumbed the switch. The shroud disappeared. The dark pressed in. Phantoms leapt at Wyatt as his eyes fought to readjust. Adam whispered in his ear again.
“Somebody removed the vent panel. We may not be alone up here.”
Down below, inside the closet, Ann-Margret circled and barked up into the echoing blackness. Adam closed the trapdoor. The barking muted.
Wyatt thought he heard Vera calling, but the sound was lost in the walls. The wind made a dry sharpening noise. The plastic sheet crackled. Even in this state of near blindness, he sensed it was trembling gently, less than six feet away. He said, “When I count to three, scan ahead with your light. I have the Glock. If you see anyone, shout location and stay down.”
“Don’t worry about me, Dad.”
“One ... two ...”
Wyatt thought he heard shuffling. A soft grunt followed by a squeaky crunch, crunch. The rhythmic dragging sound of metal scraping against wood.
A chain?
“Three.”
Lights on.
Crossing his wrists, Wyatt aimed the Glock and Maglite together. He swept from the peak of the roof to the narrowest corners. The plastic sheet blocked out a portion of his view. Dodging to one side, he shined around it. He found the gap where the vent panel was missing. His light cast a silhouette against the wall. When it reached the gap, the night sucked it in. He retracted the beam and scanned the attic once more, slowly this time, half- expecting an intruder to burst up from the insulation.
Nothing. No one.
He looked over his shoulder at his son, who tried to suppress his giggling.
The attic was empty.