Candle in the Attic Window(85)

“Mom, how long have I been in bed?”

“You were well enough to go to the funeral. You seemed fine, yesterday.”

“We already had the funeral?”

“The medication must have been too strong.” Her mother frowned. “You don’t remember?”

Marianne shook her head.

“Go back to bed, dear. You look so pale. Get some rest.”

“When can we leave, Mom?”

“Not until the nine-day novena for the dead has finished. If you’re well enough, after then, we can still go to the beach.”

Nine more days of food and family. Her mother walked away.

Marianne felt a chill in her chest, as if she’d been stabbed with an icicle. Her heart stopped beating for a moment and she grasped at the walls to steady herself. She looked around the room, to call for help, to say something, but no one was looking in her direction. As abruptly as the feeling came, she felt fine again.

Marianne walked back to the children.

“What kind of story did I tell you?” she asked, but the children did not seem to hear. They ran past her after a black-winged moth.

Yaya looked straight at her, eyebrows crossed together. She was not a relative but her father’s one-time nursemaid. Her brown skin was wrinkled, her hair white. A cockroach ran over Yaya’s feet, and the old woman crushed it with the heel of her slipper.




The mosquito bites stopped itching. Her head was clear for the first time in days, but outside, the sky was dark and rain drenched the house in sheets. Wind rattled the balcony door and water dripped down into a pool in the middle of the hardwood floor. She paused, trying to listen for people downstairs, but it was quiet. The window shutters slapped shut, leaving her in the dark for a moment.

She panicked, as the dream of nights before came back, but a moment later, the light returned and she let out a breath. Fever and nightmares, nothing more, she tried to remind herself.

She could see the light in the kitchen from the stairwell. She could smell garlic rice and sausages. Breakfast smells. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but neither did she feel hungry. She made her way down the steps, oddly light. The heat was bearable for the first time. It was all very odd.

She walked into the kitchen, but no one looked up from their meal. Yaya was at the sink, washing out a pan. Marianne realized then that it must be a dream. She saw Carmelita seated at the table, cutting the sausages with a dull knife, spooning rice and some tomatoes into her mouth.

“I can’t wait to go home, Mom.” The girl at the table smiled.

“I thought you wanted to go to the beach, Marianne.”

“But I can’t swim,” Carmelita replied.

“All those lessons and you’ve forgotten? You can’t just forget ….”

“I mean, it’s been a while.” Carmelita laughed.

Marianne felt her blood freeze over. She walked up to the table and cleared her throat, but no one turned in her direction. She slammed a fist against the table. A glass of water vibrated. Nothing more. Not even a glance from her mother or father.

“Mom, Dad!” Marianne waved her hands in front of their faces.

Her father continued to flip through the channels on the TV from his chair. Yaya dropped the pan in the sink and turned away, apologizing, scrubbing frantically.

“That’s not me,” Marianne breathed.

“Do we really need to stay for all nine days? It’s not like Carmelita was that close. She was just a cousin.”

Her father set down the remote, his eyes bloodshot still. “She’s still family.”

Carmelita frowned, as she shoved more sausage into her mouth. Her mother winced, looked away from her father.

Marianne pushed at the chair, but though she could feel the cold metal beneath her fingers, it did not move. She swung at the pitcher of water on the table, but glass did not shatter.

“Why can’t you see me?” she shouted, her eyes filling with tears.

The room began to swarm with cockroaches and moths and lizards. They crept in through the cracks in the windowsills, up through the pipes in the sink, beneath the door to the rear of the house, filling the kitchen.

Her mother screamed and Yaya crushed a few cockroaches with her pan. Her father jumped up onto the couch.

“What’s going on?!” They began to huddle together, everyone except Marianne and the girl who wanted to steal her life.

“I think it’s the storm. They’re just trying to get out of the rain ….”

Her mom squealed as she swatted away the insects from her legs.

Carmelita caught Marianne by the wrist. She stared into her eyes. So, she can see me, Marianne thought, triumphant for a moment.

“Begone, little ghost.” Carmelita said, digging a nail into Marianne’s wrist. Marianne shrieked as a drop of her blood dripped onto the tile floor.

The insects rushed away as if it were poison. Carmelita smiled, open-mouthed, and Marianne thought she saw two yellow eyes staring back from inside the girl’s mouth.

The world went dark.




Marianne tossed the mosquito net aside and ran out of the bedroom. Outside, the moon was shining again. The storm had gone and she did not know how many days had passed. She could hear her parents in the next room and ran to find them. Her father’s hands were balled into fists. Her mother’s cheeks were red again.