R.K. Ch 2- The Woman in the Attic

CHAPTER 2- The Woman in the Attic
(MAEVE)

February 6, 2077

I was seven years old when I had my first unforgettable nightmare. It haunted me every night before I slept and crept into my mind during my deepest chapters of slumber. Eyes closed and body still beneath my thin blanket beside my many brothers and sisters, I would shoot upright in the dark hours with tears in my eyes, struggling to divide dream from reality. My vision would eventually adjust to the darkness of the great wooden bedroom, large enough to fit thirty people, the walls lined with twin sized bunk beds, and I would realize that I was safe. Well, as safe as a little girl could be in a government-run orphanage under the Great Avant Syndicate. I was raised in a country so rife with corruption that children’s parents were taken away from them at birth, leaving the kids to be raised like mold in a petri dish, a sort of twisted scientific study. However, I didn’t know all that yet. What I did know was that in my dreams, there was an impossibly old woman who lived in the attic above the kitchen, and it felt almost real.
“I used to have nightmares too,” consoled my friend Alaric Dunne one day after I divulged my problems to him on the courtyard.
Alaric was just over a year older than me, shiny black hair falling freely below his ears and a pair of acetate framed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose. We sat criss-cross on the grass, much of it dead and yellow, the blades scratchy to the touch. The courtyard was at the center of four great brick walls that extended into various buildings within the manor. Beyond those buildings there was a small front yard lined with barbed wire.
“What did you do to get rid of them?” I asked desperately, absentmindedly picking at the dirt.
After a pensive moment, Alaric replied, “Every night before I went to bed, I would think about all the things that make me happy. Then, I would think about the monsters from my nightmares. I would look around and realize that the things that made me happy were real, and the monsters weren’t. I’ve never seen a monster before. And then I realized that my nightmares were silly, and I shouldn’t let them make me feel scared.”
“Oh. But what if your nightmares aren’t about monsters? What if they’re about something that could be real?”
“Well, you’ll just have to find a way to prove to yourself that they’re not,” Alaric answered with a shrug, his high-pitched voice full of that simplicity that exists when you’re a child, as if the solution was the easiest thing in the world.
So one night, after I’d endured enough torture from the nightmare’s constant return, I slipped down the ladder from the top bunk where no monster could reach and padded out to the kitchen on small feet. At night, the guards only stood watch at the various exits and entrances of the dilapidated manor, leaving me free to roam the third floor.
At the time, I couldn’t even be sure that the attic above the kitchen existed—had it simply been a figment of my imagination fueled by the dream state? But sure enough, after pulling back the sliding door to the kitchen and making my way into the steel and cement room, I quickly discovered a hanging string with a loop at the end hanging from the concrete ceiling. The maneuver onto the table was made with some struggle as I gradually climbed from tall chair to tabletop. Dodging a bowl of fruit and heaps of precariously stacked pots and pans, I rose to my tippy toes and just managed to grasp the small plastic ring hanging a few inches off from the table’s edge.
Creeeeak went the ladder as it unfolded downwards, producing a soft sound when it finally touched the floor. Shoulders and calves burning, I slid off of the tabletop and approached the foot of the ladder.
Prior to that moment, my journey had been charged by my need for assurance that the lady didn’t truly exist. Using the frustration from my sleepless nights as courage, I’d come this far, only to find myself paralyzed by the daunting height of the ladder; the way that it led up into petrifying darkness.
I looked back through the kitchen doorway, past which lay the hallway leading to where my siblings slept. While I was only a kid then, I did have some sense that my life was already its own kind of nightmare. Growing up in Shakoga, I became privy to the state of discord our society was in early on. The site was rife with disease to the point where sickness was just considered the human condition. Food and water couldn’t be trusted. Medication, treatments, and surgeries were alluring images flashed across the streets and in the skies. Us kids were kept inside for fear of infection, as unlike much of the general public, we couldn’t afford regular treatment if we got sick. Apparently a hotspot for viruses, MedCorp embedded itself in Shakoga in order to solve the disease issue right around the time that King Alder came to power. That was two years before I was born, and it seemed as though nothing had changed since, perhaps only worsened.
The men and women who stood guard around the manor, a large brick building with the words “New Hope” erected in gnarled wrought iron at the entrance, were sentries deployed by the Kingdom. We could tell by the symbols they wore on their olive green bulletproof uniforms: a zig zag with a short horizontal line at the end, like a heart rate stopping. Otherwise interpreted as a compact spelling of “AVANT”, the first karat shape was the “A”, the slanted line going back up forming the “V”, and so on. Together, the lines looked more like they spelled out a sloped version of the letters “MT”, hence their nickname: the Muts. During my time at New Hope, the Muts had us spend most of our time learning the history of the Great Avant Syndicate. It was important to them that we learn the flaws of past societies and how to prevent such failures as we moved forward. There was always great emphasis on our responsibility as the new generation to further the glory of our great Kingdom.
Every so often, kids would ask questions. Things like, “Why don’t we have parents?” and, “Why can’t we leave campus?” If such questions became persistent, the curious children would be taken away by Muts to be returned a day later. The kids would come back with clouded eyes. They appeared dazed and acted forgetful. I hardly ever saw physical violence exerted by the Muts at New Hope, but I knew that they were trouble. Therefore, I made a habit of keeping my head down. With nowhere else to go, I attempted to make the most of my upbringing during the few pockets of time where Muts weren’t present, and I could attempt to be a normal kid with the others in the manor. We would play and try to ignore the epidemic raging outside the manor doors and the duplicity lingering within.
Essentially living in quarantine without any real family, I wondered which world was scarier: the one I already lived in, or the one in my mind where I was pulled towards the attic by a mysterious force to find an elderly woman huddled in the furthest corner. Unable to stop the pull that seemed to be dragging me by my sternum, I’d approach her. Every time, she would reveal her face to be covered in gnarly yellow sores and blisters. She would roar a nasty scream, one that seemed to go on forever, so loud that one could practically see sonic ellipses materializing outwards from the horrific shriek. As if the pull within me had been ruptured by the pure strength of the woman’s agony, I’d turn to run back to safety, but my movements would be bogged down by some other invisible force. Pain would burst in my face, and I’d reach up to touch the sores now taking over my own body, death seeping in through the ugly lesions.
Making my decision, I forced myself to face the ladder once more. I leaned forward and grabbed hold of the soft wooden side rail. I took my first step. For a moment, I stood with both feet on the bottom slab and either hand on the outer sides of the ladder. I could still turn back, choose not to discover the truth, or at least put it off until later. Or I could exterminate the dread right then, nightmares begone. I thought again of the orphanage, of the terrifying kingdom beyond and the isolation of my world, and then I took another step. The dark felt more and more comforting as I approached, and in a matter of seconds, I was standing on the dusty attic floor.
There was a dormer window to my left, allowing slices of moonlight to spill into the space. Four off-white rectangles, separated by the plus-shaped window sash, imprinted themselves onto the nailed-down wooden planks that I stood on. The attic was cramped, but for the small child that I was back then, it could’ve been infinite. Boxes of various items took on the forms of large silhouettes, and cobwebs hung from the slope ceiling. It was colder up there than in the rest of the manor, and I held myself with both arms as I stood awkwardly, scanning the attic for any nightmarish apparitions. I froze as my gaze landed on a heap in the darkest corner—was it truly shifting in breath-like motions, or was it an illusion abetted by the darkness?
“Hello?” I squeaked.
I slowly stepped forward as if walking through several pounds of sand, almost unwilling. The urge to dispel my nightmares had twisted into the dire need to know that there was something else out there—someone else just as frightened as me, perhaps an elderly woman who managed to hide away from the Muts and grow old in her own makeshift hideout, however lonely. Still, childlike fear filled my senses, and the two hungers battled within me: the hunger to run, and that which urged me to reach out and touch the rising and falling lump with a careful palm in order to wake it.
The thing stirred, and I hurriedly snatched my hand away. It was definitely a person, it had to be. The lump was large and round and covered in a thin gray blanket like the ones we slept under in the bedchamber. The blanket was furrowed where the broad figure held it tight around its body. I could make out thin wisps of gray hair laying flat against the floorboards, emerging from beneath the covers.
“Hello? M-my name is Maeve. Maeve Rawlins. I don't want to hurt you,” I said finally, even though my heart was beating out of my chest, and the air suddenly felt much thinner.
“Maeve?” croaked the figure. The female voice was quiet and weak.
The figure finally rose, albeit slowly, no longer shrouded from head to toe in the pale cotton. She was the woman from my nightmares, but with mercifully clear skin, no sign of disease making itself excessively apparent. Her hair was short and white, her skin brown and eyes burnt umber. She looked extremely tired, and there was no telling how old she truly was—I’d never seen someone with so many wrinkles. She reached out a shaky hand, her fingernails chipped and uneven. Slowly, I raised my own hand. The touch was cold and smooth. Her hand was dry, and her fingers gently pressed against my own.
“I thought I’d see you again, but I didn’t think it would be this soon. You’re a smart girl,” she smiled proudly, her voice more even now.
“Who are you? Why are you living up here?” I asked.
By that point, my heart had finally ceased its hammering. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the blue tint of the room caused by the flow of moonlight gave the attic a dreamy glow.
The woman released my hand and didn’t stop smiling, although her expression faded into something closer to wisdom as she pursed her lips momentarily before answering, “It’s not safe for someone like me out there. I remember things… Things that no one’s supposed to know. But don’t worry about that quite yet, dear. I hope to see you again. God knows I have so much to tell you, and you me. But listen,” she urged, her eyes growing wide, “you mustn’t tell anyone about me. Like I said, it isn’t safe… Do you promise?”
I nodded my head vigorously, matching her intense wide-eyed expression. Having dodged both of my questions, I had no idea what to say to the woman next. After some more minutes of mysterious dialogue, I emerged from the attic and restored the ladder to its home in the ceiling. I tiptoed back to the bedroom as the very beginnings of dusk shone their muted orange hues into the bluish black of the early morning sky. The small pouch that the woman had given to me as a sort of parting gift sat lightly in the pocket of my cotton pajama shorts.
“Hi, Maeve.”
The whisper from my dark-haired companion sent me shooting straight up into the air like a spooked cat. So much for the effort of stilling my heart earlier in the attic—it seemed that the night would be full of anxiety-inducing surprises.
Alaric was sitting straight up in the bottom bunk where he slept, on the opposite wall and a few meters to the right from me.
“What are you doing awake? Go back to sleep!” I managed.
I myself was feeling very drowsy, and was looking forward to returning to my bed at last.
“Did you go up there? To the attic?” he asked expectantly.
Looking around frantically for listening ears, I darted across the room to my friend. You mustn’t tell anyone about me, the woman had demanded. What did Alaric know?
Once I was safely beside Alaric on the small mattress, I whispered carefully, “Yes… you were right. Now I know there’s nothing up there. I won’t have any more nightmares.” I attempted a grateful tone of voice.
“Then what’s in your pocket?” he asked.
“What?” I gasped, preparing to come up with more lies. “Nothing!” I exclaimed, scandalized, twisting away from him defensively.
“It’s okay, Maeve. I’ve been up there too.” Then, to finally drive his point home: “I’ve seen her.”
A moment passed where I considered whether it was safe to proceed. Unable to help myself, I said in awe, “You have?”
“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure I know what’s in that bag. Open it,” Alaric insisted, scooching in closer to get a better look.
Reaching into my small pocket, my fingers grasped the threaded straps of the pouch and drew it free. The pouch was a bit bigger than the size of my hand, and it was bulging with how full it was. Alaric continued to watch with captivated scrutiny as I slowly pried it open. I removed the small tin box first. I lifted the lid, and inside there were several sheets of fine plastic that held circular objects within. I didn’t understand what I was looking at, but Alaric exclaimed as soon as he saw them.
“No fair! I have to wear these,” he said, sliding off his glasses.
He pointed out the slight red color in the lenses, and explained how they deflected psychic rays casted off of the Juniper televisions that the Muts kept in what used to be the second floor library.
“What’s a library?” I’d asked naively.
“A library is a room where they kept paper information on giant shelves that stacked all the way up to the ceiling,” Alaric declared wondrously. “The information was written on thousands of pieces of paper, and people used to borrow the information from the libraries to read it.”
“What kind of information?”
“Any. That’s what Ms. Mari told me, at least. They could be stories, data, history. Apparently, lots of people used to write for fun or for work, and other people could read what they wrote by going to libraries,” Alaric explained.
It all seemed rather primitive to me. At the same time, there was something charming about it, the idea that someone’s writing could bring people together from all over. Of course, many would view such a process as a massive waste of time when they could just open their Juniper phones and gain instant access to any information they desired.
“This sounds like Old Times stuff. Is Ms. Mari really that old?” I asked in disbelief.
According to what we learned from the Muts, the Great Avant Syndicate had been around for thousands of years. Our way of life was the only one imaginable because if it wasn’t superior, then we would’ve seen a change eventually, but we hadn’t. No one had contested the government of the Syndicate for the over two millennia that it had reigned, and no one ever would.
“Ms. Mari doesn’t tell you everything all at once. She knows things, but she never tells me how she knows them. Maybe she’ll tell you one day.”
Alaric helped me tear open the sleeve of tinted contacts that had been stored in the tin within the pouch. They possessed the same anti-psychic properties as Alaric’s glasses. Now, if we were ever to break the rules or find ourselves in a situation where Juniper screens were involved, we’d be immune to the cloudy-eye effect that they had on their viewers. Whether we entirely knew what all of that meant at the time was irrelevant. As kids, we knew that something was wrong with the world, and we were willing to trust the old woman in the attic to save us.
Finally back in bed and instilled with a new sense of purpose, I turned over one final thought repeatedly in my mind before drifting off to sleep. The contacts hadn’t been the only item that Ms. Mari had wanted me to have. Alaric and I had removed the final item together, and we read the cryptic note with equal levels of curiosity: a shrunken aging section of paper with a request to meet the woman in the attic one final time at an inscribed date far in the future.

October 1, 2088


The radiant blue liquid flows in the glass vial with an oily sort of movement, small bubbles of air drifting aimlessly as I roll the syringe back and forth in my palm. Verascene, it’s called, according to Ms. Mari. When injected into a certain advantageous point in the neck, it acts as a reverse truth serum: rather than excavating secrets from its recipients, it sucks them out of the earth and the sky, out from everywhere that’s acted as a solvent for the Syndicate’s many enigmas where they’ve been eroding until they become nothing but dust. The Verascene summons the secrets from the regions where we choose not to look—the horrific truths that we avoid at all costs for fear of seeing our authentic reflections next time we look in the mirror. The drug draws the truth from its nasty lair and imbues the mind of the user with its veracity, seeping in through any rupture or gap it can find, mixing into veins and skin and pupils.
For some, the truth of the Syndicate is too much to bear, driving them mad. But what is madness in a country where everyone pretends that everything is fine and normal while a new person goes missing every day, you can’t leave your house without running into a Mut, and every time you turn off your TV, you have to muster every ounce of strength in your body just to remember your own name?
There is one person who never ceases to amaze me, somehow finding a sense of comfort in the hysteria.
Moaning helplessly on the dusty wooden floors of New Hope with an empty syringe lying idle by his ear is my oldest friend and former role model. His hair is shorter than when we were kids, but it still boasts enough length to run across his dazed face, sticking to beads of sweat unattractively. He laughs stupidly, empty chuckling that borders dangerously on choking, as he holds himself with both arms and turns on his side weakly. Taking in his pathetic form, I think to myself, this is madness.
“It’s so funny!” Alaric declares breathlessly, tears brimming in his eyes. His voice is deeper now, but sometimes I wonder if he ever really grew up.
“What’s funny? I don’t see anything funny about it!” shouts Hobie, alive as ever, a tall slender boy our age with grayish-brown hair and pretty green eyes.
The music in the New Hope basement is blaring, bass practically shaking the boards of old wood. The room is dim, lit only by the LED strobe lights drifting unceasingly across the space, shrouding Hobie momentarily in a shower of saturated orange. Sorry excuses for furniture dot the floor, deep cobalt bean bags and short foldable tables skewed carelessly here and there. Heavy breathing issues from the corner behind me to my left, the constant wafts of warmth irritating the back of my neck. Turning, I see that Odin still hasn’t shot up yet. His square jaw trembles slightly, dark chiseled eyebrows furrowed in contemplation.
He looks distracted by something, and when I follow his gaze, my eyes land on Hobie in his extravagant party outfit, a crop top and denim shorts, still conversating heatedly with an inebriated Alaric. Odin seems to snap back to reality as he notices my staring.
“D-Do you think it hurts, Maeve?” he asks nervously, raising his voice over the music—some Mut-approved monstrosity of incongruous synth and drum beats. He wears a meek smile as an attempted disguise for the dread that lingers not far beneath the surface. He keeps nervously shifting the vial from left to right hand as if hoping for a glass-shattering accident, a coincidental excuse for his cowardice.
“Of course it hurts. But it will free us. If we don’t want to keep living in this goddamn hellhole, walking around like zombies like everyone else,” I pause for an invigorating breath of air which quickly falls short of my expectations for its staleness, “then we have to take the leap,” I finish, summoning an inspirational tone.
Odin glances at Alaric, raising his eyebrows at the absolute mess that Verascene made of him, or perhaps it just brought out the hurricane that had been festering there for years already.
“Don’t worry about him,” I order, grabbing Odin’s shoulder to make him face me. “He’ll be normal soon enough. And then he’ll be ready for Geronto, and then the Kingdom. But first, we have to do this,” I say, gesturing towards our respective syringes.
Odin gulps down a vain solution of air and saliva, expression turning solemn as for a second, he forgets to pretend.

The midnight rager facade was Ms. Mari’s idea, a revelation about hiding in plain sight. New Hope was abandoned years ago—the Muts likely having realized that there’s only so much brainwashing to be conducted before it all gets a bit redundant. Having rendered an entire generation of New Hope orphans irredeemably cloudy-eyed, perhaps they assumed their work was done. Now, the great abandoned building has become a domicile for wanderers, and with the way that the Muts had fled the area as if the manor itself was some kind of virus, there was no one there to take issue with the drifters.
There was also no one to surveil as Alaric and I sketched our map of the Kingdom in worn white chalk on the New Hope attic floor under the practiced guidance of Ms. Mari. We drew in our own sort of visual language, so that if some trace of chalk remained after the wanton onslaughts of the broom’s wiry bristles, the remnants themselves would be imperceptible to anyone but us. It’s important that we pretend not to know a thing of the Regime’s true nature—the Kingdom is ruthless, which is of course how Ms. Mari wound up living alone in an attic in the first place.
Earlier today, Alaric and I returned to the attic for our final meeting. Why it had to be the last, we hadn’t a clue. We ritualistically scribbled out the chart of the entire Kingdom by memory as we did at the start of every convention with our garret-housed elder. Each time, Ms. Mari would indicate a new location on the map for us to commit to memory.
“Good, good,” she praised softly, voice flickering further into quietude all the time.
The initial sketch was done. I could sense by the string of anticipation pulled taut in the air that what was missing was something crucial. Ms. Mari’s gnarled index finger slid gradually across the floor, rising and falling ever so slightly over the imperfections in the wood.
“Here,” she decided suddenly.
My attentive gaze trailed from where her fingertip landed between the borders of Kod and Pent up along the lengthy sleeve of her thermal shirt and into her wrinkled face. It was as if gravity had taken twice its usual toll on her skin, dragging the flesh down towards the earth’s center as if she somehow belonged there. Her eyes widened as she stared at the location on the map. In the sketch, the point was just some paltry inches down from Shakoga, but when translated to the dialect of geography, the stretch spanned a thousand miles.
“What’s there?” I asked breathlessly, attempting to snap the rope of tension that was now threatening to strangle me.
“I can’t say,” admitted Ms. Mari to my disappointment, but not necessarily to my surprise.
I allowed myself to tear my gaze from the chalky floor to meet that of Alaric’s, and I knew he’d be giving me that I told you so look, as if to say: “Why would you even bother asking?”
For a while, Alaric had held his tongue on the matter, knowing me to be one of those optimistic types, so much so that I bordered on superstition, and in his perception, naivety. It wasn’t lost on me that as the years went on and nothing changed, he began to heavily consider that Ms. Mari was just some crazy old woman lodging up in an orphanage attic with nowhere else to go.
“This is Shakoga after all,” Alaric had reasoned one sweltering summer day as the two of us wandered the perimeter of the manor, “the site of disease. What if she has, like, dementia or something?”
While it’s true that with so much time alone, the walls themselves may begin to seep with voices and the darkness may gain a sort of consciousness of its own, Ms. Mari always had a sense of dedication about her. There was a meaning to all of this noise, I knew. And while it didn’t make complete sense yet, I always trusted that it would.
“I can’t tell you…” Ms. Mari reiterated, “But, I can show you.”
A beat of intentionally strained silence. Alaric wasn’t having it.
“How?” he asked impatiently.
Alaric was kneeling on the floor on the side of the map opposite me, Geronto sketched by his knees. He was still twisting the cylinder of white restlessly between his fingers, and he squinted against the darkness even with his glasses on.
Ms. Mari began to sway to her feet, and I rushed to support her by the arm.
“Thank you, dear,” she mumbled with a hint of embarrassment, and then she quickly turned to face a stack of boxes set in the dormer window’s angular cast of light.
Hobbling towards the stack, she disassembled the pile and lifted a cardboard vessel from the center of the heap. She carried it back over, and I helped her back down to the floor. Alaric and I crowded in close and watched as she withdrew large papers with black and white print on their faces which I recognized only from the winter times when the Muts needed kindling for the fireplace. Dust and lint billowed out from the receptacle in great puffs until eventually, she extracted a deep mauve box with bright gold decorative accents around the borders. There was a logo set in the box’s center, three characters in a distinctive font: H4H
“These hold the truth,” Ms. Mari proclaimed in a whisper of a whisper, barely audible in the already silent space.
She lifted the velvety drop-on lid to reveal a number of syringes. They were so thick, it made my stomach flip—I hated needles, but the sapphire fluid that trembled within from the shakiness of her grip had an alluring glimmer to it.
Ms. Mari signaled for Alaric’s bit of chalk. She carefully set down the box on her left side and circled the place where she had pointed previously. She gestured from the logo on the box’s lid to the significant location. Suddenly, Ms. Mari straightened up and reached an arm towards Alaric and I, gripping each of our shoulders with a strength that one would not have guessed she still had.
“Look at me,” she breathed, looking from my face to Alaric’s urgently. “You must find the princess, and bring her here.” She pointed, more aggressively this time, at the circled location. Then she lifted the mauve box again mindfully with both hands. “Use these to spread the truth. They’ll free their receivers, but be careful… Only share them with those you trust.” She looked from me to Alaric again, ensuring that we were absorbing each word as gospel, as words that contained life itself. “Time is running out. In exactly three months, the Great Plan begins.” Just uttering those words caused her hand to jolt nervously over her mouth, and she fidgeted with her fingers before finding the resolve to continue. “It’s up to you kids now. I wish I could tell you more, but I have a feeling that we’ll meet again. But in case we don’t…”
Ms. Mari pulled us in close, bowing her head so that we touched foreheads.
“If anyone can do this, it’s you kids.” A weak smile flickered across her solemn face, and her watery eyes became even more so as her voice faltered. “Succeed where we failed.”
“We..?” questioned Alaric. His brow furrowed. Where I saw wonder in the unknown, he seemed to see a great brick wall built solely out of spite for his confusion.
“Yes. I daresay you might even meet some of them.” Ms. Mari’s expression became muddled: her voice grew light, but her expression seemed to darken into something grim. “Now… go. There’s no more time to be wasted.”
In the time it took us to travel from the attic’s furthest corner to the ladder’s opening, Ms. Mari advised us on how to administer the injections and offered us slight allusions as to how it would feel. She selected various boxes as we made our way through the labyrinth of items as if at random, but I knew that her movements were so deft because she had memorized every inch of this place. In my arms, she laid a medium-sized box labeled “Maeve”.


When do the mysteries end? Alaric had grumbled as we packed away our belongings back in our childhood sleeping quarters. They end now, I think to myself, truth serum resting in my sweaty palm as sound blares and light explodes in color around me, a yellow-orange vortex barreling down, down, down.
“Let’s do it together,” I say to Odin.
Hesitantly, he nods. With one reassuring hand still on his shoulder, I bring the syringe to the slight angle where neck turns to shoulder, and stab, and in that moment, I know that nothing will ever be the same.