In the Attic

The old house reeked with the musty milieu that comes from neglect. Dust clouds and cobwebs greeted us as we mounted the front steps to the porch.

For some reason, my grandfather Abaddon Webster had bequeathed the old place to me in his will when he finally succumbed after spending the last years of his life in a nursing home. My new bride Monique and I decided that refurbishing the two-story New England structure with quaint gables and a wrap-around front porch would be a better investment than pouring rent money into an apartment.

Since the place was obviously without electric power, we had purchased some nonperishable provisions and lanterns to tide us over until we could get the place straightened out and have the power restored.

When we entered the main room, we were relieved to find protective coverings spread over most of the furniture. We made our way to the kitchen and deposited the bags of supplies on the table. Then we set about exploring the remainder of the house.

Removing the coverings from the furniture in the den, we found rich upholstered chairs and sofas adorned with strange embroidered glyphs in gold and silver on a burgundy background. The walls were covered with shelves full of all manner of tomes, ranging from tales of high adventure to strange writing in alien gibberish. “The Testimony of the Mad Arab” proclaimed “The wolves carry my name in their midnight speeches, and that voice summons me from afar with unholy impatience,” and warned of horrors that stalk about and lurk in wait at the door of every man. “The Book of the Dead” told of profound secrets handed down from generation to generation by worshippers of the Ancient Ones. “The Maklu Text” cautioned that incantations shown therein “must not be shown to any but the properly instructed, and when used, the markings must be burned utterly, and the ashes buried in safe ground where none may find them.”

Needless to say, these writings were a bit disquieting and dampened our enthusiasm for the refurbishment project. Thinking a good night’s sleep would refresh our resolve, we fixed some savory strawberry jam sandwiches to eat and then retired to the bedroom on the second floor. I removed the dusty old bed coverings, and Monique spread fresh satin sheets with a lavender fragrance over the mattress. In the security of each other’s arms, we extinguished the lantern and went to sleep.

Somewhere in the night, Monique nudged me and asked, “Did you just hear something in the attic?”

“No. What was it?”

“Some kind of shuffling sound. It sounds like there’s someone up there. You should go look.”

So I lit a lantern and started up the creaking wooden steps to the attic. At the top of the staircase, I encountered a closed door secured by a hasp with an unlocked padlock hanging in the hook. I removed the padlock and went into the attic. The lantern light projected contorted shadows of large trunks and other sundry items against the far wall. With very deliberate steps, I moved forward to illuminate the entire space.

I detected a small tendril of vapor flowing out from a small aperture in the wall under the dormer window. That vapor rapidly became a large cloud, from which emerged a grotesque creature with the head of a goat standing upright on hoofed appendages and chanting incoherent incantations in a booming voice while wildly waving its arms.

After a brief moment frozen in shock, I quickly regained my composure and retreated through the door, securing it with the lock before retrieving Monique.

We rushed down the stairs and out the front door. Remembering the admonition I had read earlier in the day, I flung the lantern back onto the porch. Standing there shivering in our night garments, we held each other closely as we watched the place burn and listened to the screeching and wailing that came from the evil within.

In the morning, I called a demolition crew to raze the remnants of that vile structure and bury its evil spirit forever.