Beach Thriller(12)
First, she checked the upstairs bedrooms. They were quiet and vacant, thank goodness. Now it was on to the hard part—the attic. Access was through a pull-down ladder in the ceiling, and Holly had seldom gone up there, even when she was young. It was dark and creepy, with nothing to see except boxes of memories she’d rather ignore.
The ladder lowered with the creak of old hinges. Holly peered into the dark. Shadows leaked out, vanishing into the hallway light, but the space above loomed like a black maw waiting to swallow her whole.
Up she went, her breath sputtering as she felt around for a pull chain, fearing an animal might pounce at any moment. Eventually she found it and was surprised when the bulb worked. She couldn’t say when the light had been changed last. She needed a moment for her vision to adjust, rejoicing in the good news that nothing had bitten her face.
She began searching for signs of animal activity: droppings, nests made of old newspaper or insulation, claw marks on the floor. While she didn’t see any rodents, possums, or raccoons there were plenty of markers of her personal history: boxes galore, accompanied by furniture that was too old and beat-up to use, but as familiar to her as yesterday. She would need to clear this space out at some point.
The floor consisted of plywood boards resting on two-by-fours that ran north to south. She could move with ease, but had to watch out for the uncovered areas with pink insulation or else she’d risk putting her foot through the ceiling.
The wall facing Holly had a portal window covered in grime. The space smelled like an old barn filled with heated hay and wood chips. It was certainly an inviting place for an animal to take refuge. But where was the creature hiding? In front of her stood a tall, wide bookcase stocked with dusty books. One book was on the floor nearby, its cover facing the ceiling. Had it somehow fallen? Holly wondered.
Even in the hazy light, Holly could read the spines. The bookcase held all the mysteries she loved from her childhood—the Nancy Drews, the Baby-Sitters Club, and most of the Goosebumps series. Could this cunning critter have knocked a book off the shelf?
Holly moved across the room, holding her pen in front of her like a dagger. The space between the bookcase and the wall was large enough to hide a Rodent of Unusual Size. (Thank you, Princess Bride.) Her eyes fell on an old broom propped up in a corner. She snatched it, a far better weapon than a writing utensil.
She advanced, holding the broom handle in front of her like a lance. A distinct rustling behind the bookcase stopped her dead. A tense shiver rippled through her. Got you, she thought, sure she had pinpointed the location of the invading species.
But before she could peer behind the shelves, another noise stopped her. Holly froze. Her chest constricted, her fingers and toes went numb. It wasn’t a scrape, a scurry, or a hiss that she heard.
It was a sneeze.
Ghosts didn’t sneeze, and it was way too loud for a mouse. She ran through the possibilities—a thief, a drug addict, a rapist, or a killer? A scream erupted from her throat, raw and untamed, full of pure terror. Her instinct was to run—fast—but before she could retreat, a figure scrambled out from behind the bookcase.
She clutched the broom in her trembling hands. Fuck. Why couldn’t it have been a squirrel?
Chapter 9
Jade
What can I say? I have a dust allergy. I was pretty impressed with myself for staying hidden as long as I did, but you drop one book, and it’s game over. Ironically, the title of the novel that made a racket was Silent Treatment by Michael Palmer, whoever that is.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when the woman screamed. I’m sure I startled her, but she’s acting like I’m some kind of intruder—which I realize I am, but I’m not that kind of intruder. I admit I have a weapon—a seven-inch buck knife concealed in my backpack. But I’m not going to use it on her, or anybody for that matter, unless I’m forced to. It’s for emergency protection only, but this lady doesn’t know all that, and she’s too hysterical for me to explain.
To my dismay, she also has a weapon—a broomstick tucked under her arm that she flips around so the bristles point at my face. It’s not the most lethal choice for self-defense, but it annoys the shit out of me. She lunges forward like an Olympic fencer and swats at me as though I’m a fly. Thick straw bristles rake across my cheek, and it genuinely hurts.
“Ouch! Stop it!” I yell, using my hands to thwart her advances, but she’s not cooperating. She’s primal, revved up like a modded Honda Civic. (I know a lot about cars, and I’ll smack anyone who qualifies that by adding, “for a girl.”)
I’ll give her credit: She’s quick on her feet. But if our roles were reversed, I’d be a hell of a lot more effective with that broom. Too bad I wasn’t more careful with the books.
I’m trying to explain myself, but my attacker’s not listening to a word I say. She’s got her mind made up that I’m dangerous. She’s not the first to think that. Just one glance at my dirty jeans, green army jacket, and dyed black hair suggests I’m a deadbeat and maybe even a violent drug user. My dark eyeliner and studded jewelry seal the deal.
But I’m no threat. I’m simply misunderstood, and okay—maybe a little dangerous.
“Who are you? What do you want? Get out of my house. Get out!” she yells.
She comes at me again with those bristles. While it doesn’t really hurt, she could still poke my eye out. Since my attacker is hell-bent on keeping up the fight, all I can do is shield my face with my hands, but I quickly tire of being her punching bag.