Candle in the Attic Window(6)

After spending more than two weeks dealing with the press, local officials and survivors, I returned exhausted and depressed. My nerves were scraped raw and I dismissed Jonas rather curtly, preferring seclusion to servile attendance. My mind was numb, and I drank two brandies for supper and went to bed early.

Some time later, I found myself awake, mouth dry and stomach rumbling. I drank a glass of water then decided to find something to eat. The house was dark and silent, a scattering of night lights providing adequate-but-not-abundant illumination. At the foot of the main staircase, I turned left, or at least, I believed I had, but I was distracted and moved more from habit than conscious effort.

I flicked the light switch in what I supposed was the kitchen, but found myself instead in my mother’s sitting room. That meant that I had turned right instead of left, so I reversed direction and crossed through the spacious foyer into what should have been the kitchen. But somehow, I ended up in the greenhouse and the door that would have allowed me to go back inside was secured. Clad in only a bathrobe and slippers, I was compelled to suffer the ignominy of rousing Jonas from his bed in the guest cottage. Jonas retrieved his key without so much as a reproachful look.

Wellstone stock, already anemic, plunged even further. I took a disastrous personal loss. To add insult to injury, the Board had clearly lost confidence in me. My father’s admonition never to reveal a wound, however painful, prevented me from resigning.

Three nights later, I woke from a sound sleep in an unfamiliar room. It was arranged roughly in the same fashion as my bed chamber, but it was much larger and the furniture cruder. The closets were bare and the only clothing I could find consisted of a flannel shirt, a pair of well-worn jeans, and some inexpensive loafers. I stepped outside the door with considerable trepidation, convinced that I had been drugged and kidnapped, but to my consternation, I found myself completely alone. My explorations were similarly disquieting. Many of the rooms bore a strong resemblance to those with which I was familiar, as did many of the furnishings, the books on the library shelves, the oriental rugs, the vivid tapestries. But they were arranged in unexpected combinations within the rooms and, even more unsettling, the rooms themselves had apparently been shuffled, so that the greenhouse was now appended to the bathroom and the kitchen opened off the library rather than the foyer.

The foyer itself bore a strong resemblance to my own, with one exception. There was no front door, just an unbroken wall where it had stood.

I soon discovered that all other means of egress were similarly missing. Exhausted, nerves on edge, I returned to the second floor, where the library had been located and where I kept the liquor cabinet. To my utter amazement, the library was no longer there. I was quite certain that it had opened off the hall directly opposite the master bedroom, at least in this version of the house, but when I stepped through the door this time, I found myself in the pantry.

The library, as it happened, was back on the first floor. I tracked it down eventually, found the liquor cabinet and drank myself into oblivion.

There’s little else of these past ten days that I can recall clearly. There was food in the kitchen but no electricity, so I was reduced to eating raw vegetables and canned tuna. Lacking power, I could make no use of any of the appliances and the telephones are all missing. Only the lights function normally, although I have noticed that if I leave them on when I leave a room, they have been extinguished when I return.

It finally occurred to me that I might break a window and escape in that fashion. I was thwarted in this, as well, because as soon as the thought entered my head, steps were taken – I have no idea by what agency – to prevent any such deliverance. All of the external windows are now shuttered and I no longer have access to the greenhouse.

I am writing this at the kitchen table. The mess I left behind has been cleared away and the cupboards have been restocked, but I have little appetite. I am clearly imprisoned, but I have no idea what crime it is that I have committed.




Another day has passed, or so I believe. Although there seems no point to further exploration, I am restless and have carried this notebook through a succession of rooms. I dare not leave it behind because I might not find it again. It is the only unchanging thing in my environment, or more properly, it is the only item whose changes I control.

A short while ago, I happened upon the room with the red door again. This time, I was able to force it open and enter. At first, I was puzzled, because it was clearly a child’s room – a nursery, in fact – and there was no such place in my house. It was only as I was about to leave that I saw a familiar stuffed animal propped against a rocking horse and it was like a key that opened a lock. Memories flooded over me and I slowly turned, re-examining everything with a sense of profound wonder

It was my own nursery, the furnishings long since cleared away at my father’s insistence. The shock was so intense that I finally left, consumed by memories, and when I recollected myself, I was in one of the guest rooms. Subsequent efforts to find the red door again have so far proven unsuccessful.

I have a new anxiety today, one which alternately alarms me and gives me hope. I have heard sounds from elsewhere in the house, purposeful sounds, some of which I think might be human voices. At first, I shied away, but once it was clear that I was in no imminent danger, I discovered that my curiosity and need for human company was stronger than my fear. I have since attempted to find my unseen companions, but no matter how promptly I respond, I have yet to see any physical evidence that I am no longer alone.