The exercise:
Write about: the attic.
Made my last delivery of leeks of the year this afternoon, as the coffee shop in town we recently began supplying put in a big order for them. Quite pleased, both to have sold so many of them and to be done with them until next year.
We still have a few sugar pumpkins and a whole lot of potatoes to get rid of, but other than that we've done a pretty good job of selling what we grew. I know the restaurant will be wanting more potatoes, and the cafe sounded interested in them as well.
It turns out I'll be working before my Saturday shift after all, as I got a text this evening asking me to cover the 3 to 9 shift tomorrow night. 14 hours of work per week sounds about right to me for the winter, with a few shifts thrown in to help out with parties.
I'd say this job has worked out very well so far.
Mine:
The trap door leading to the attic of our new home had rusted shut some number of years before our purchase. We had wanted the inspector to go up there to have a look around, make sure there were no fire hazards or mold or rodents or bodies hidden away between the top floor and the roof.
The man, clearly to his great embarrassment, had been unable to force entry. He'd even called out a handyman to have a go at it but all they'd managed to accomplish was a bit of chipped paint and a couple of scratches on the hinges.
We'd been reluctant to sign the final contract without knowing what lurked in that space, but the seller had sworn on a stack of bibles that there was nothing up there, that the door was stuck because it hadn't been used since he'd cleared out his wife's possessions after her death. He promised that he'd left no item behind, not even a pen.
And the view from the back deck was out of this world. That might have had something to do with our decision to put pen to paper.
Now, though? Two weeks after moving in, one week after the noises began? Enough is enough. Me and this crowbar are finding a way in.
Failing that, there's always the stick of dynamite I found in the back corner of the garage...
4 comments:
Congratulations on clearing out the leeks and good luck with the potatoes! Though the two together make excellent soup :)
It sounds like you're enjoying the job and the slightly irregular hours too. That definitely sounds like a good job then.
Hmm, that is definitely an interesting attic; noisy but well-sealed up. Your narrator might have fewer issues if they simply soundproofed their ceilings ;-) The little details in the story are all well thought out and add to the mood of the scene well.
The attic
"Well, his wife died in the attic," said the estate agent, tapping a pen against her teeth. "I think he said it was an accident."
"An accident?" I asked. My impatience was becoming noticeable, I knew, but I was having a hard time controlling it.
"Yes, he said she accidentally stabbed herself in the back six times."
"Oh, that kind of accident" I said. I smiled now. "That does happen, sometimes they get confused when they hear the oven-timer and use the cake-tester on themselves."
"I don't think --"
"I'm sure." I cut her off, I had what I wanted now. "I'll take the house."
"Well the police will need to finish --"
"I don't care." I interrupted her to make my point. "Tell them to leave the body in the attic, it'll make my job easier."
"What... what did you say you did again?"
"Necromancer."
Greg - hah, yes I guess soundproofing is a solid option... for those who aren't quite as curious as my narrator.
Hmm, selling real estate to a necromancer would be quite the adventure. I imagine the requirements would be a little... different than her usual clientele.
The Demon Above
I heard creeks and scratches coming from above me; as I lay awake in my not so comfortable bed. The fact that it was 2:37am and I had work in less than 5 hours was the least of my worries. This wasn’t the first time the mysterious noises emerged from the upper level of my newly owned house. In fact I remember them terrorizing me when I was much younger. Look at me now! A 37 year old wimp being consumed by my duvet.
I moved in about two weeks ago. My dad had decided he has enough of living in the boring Southern, Ontario house and had fleed to Florida. As for myself I couldn’t leave this house. I grew up in it. However, I am now beginning to remember the terrors of living here. My old bed, that I had forgotten how brutally uncomfortable it was, was now my nest. To top it off the attic was making the easily the most terrifying noises I haven’t heard for about 20 years. Just my luck, right?
It was now 3:17 and I needed some shuteye. I finally manned up and decided to face my fears. I stepped into the hall from my room I noticed the door leading to the attic was already open. My stomach dropped like the base of the shitty music my kids listen to. Naturally I hurried down my wooden stairs and grabbed the aluminum baseball bat from my sons bag. Clenching the bat as I creaked up each step I began to worry. Not so much for myself physically, but it was more like a pride thing. I slowly stepped towards the door. Inch by inch I opened the door. Nothing but blackness was in front of me. However, the noises were still coming from up the old staircase.
I began to slowly go up the stairs. Each drop of sweat poured down my face like the Niagara Falls. By the time I reached to top I the room was empty. Seconds passed and the noises began to start up. Suddenly a dark massive wing of terror came flying at my like a flock of pterodactyls.
I awoke the next morning in a haze at the bottom of the staircase in which I had fallen down from. The smell of coffee, sweat and hopefully not urine infiltrated my nose. Moments after I awoke, a man stepped over me in a blue jumpsuit. His nametag read “Jim” and he was holding a cage with a massive pigeon inside of it (The biggest I had ever seen).
Graeme - hello and welcome to the blog! My apologies for the slow reply, and I hope you find the site useful to you :)
That's a tense, yet still fun scene you have there. Some great details sprinkled throughout really livened things up!
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