The Attic Hatch

Wait. Breathe. Force the heart rate down.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the smartwatch until the glowing numbers settled into a rhythmic, deceptive sixty-two beats per minute. Harrison was watching. He was always watching. If my pulse spiked now, he’d be through that front door with a sedative before I could reach the attic stairs.

I checked the hall clock. 2:14 AM. The Tudor house groaned, its ancient bones settling into the frost-hardened earth. Leo was finally silent in his room, the blue light of his gaming monitor extinguished an hour ago.

I moved with the calculated grace of a ghost. I’d already staged my supplies: a high-lumen tactical flashlight, a short pry bar, and a heavy-duty N95 mask. I’d even chosen my clothing for silence—black leggings and a thin fleece that didn't swish.

I reached the linen closet at the end of the hallway. Inside, a small wooden hatch in the ceiling provided the only access to the crawlspace above the second floor. I’d spent my childhood avoiding this dark square, convinced it held the monsters Harrison told me were just projections of my anxiety.

I wasn't a little girl anymore. I was an architect. And I knew exactly how much weight a 1920s ceiling joist could carry.

I pulled the attic ladder down, the springs shrieking in the dead air. I froze, my hand hovering over the wood, listening for the sound of Leo waking or a car pulling into the drive.

Silence. Only the thrum of the boiler in the distant basement.

I ascended, the air growing thick and hot as I rose through the hatch. The attic was a graveyard of family history. Trunks filled with Mother's furs, boxes of Arthur’s law school textbooks, and broken furniture from a life we were told was perfect.

I donned the mask, the elastic snapping sharply against my scalp. I flicked on the flashlight, the beam cutting a violent path through the swirling dust.

I moved toward the east gable, crawling across the exposed joists. I didn't dare step on the insulation; one wrong move and I’d put a foot through the dining room ceiling. I used my 3D rendering as a mental map, counting the rafters until I reached the coordinates of the glowing red block.

The temperature shifted. The air above the master closet was noticeably colder, as if the void below was exhaling a winter that never ended.

I reached the section of floorboards Julian had mentioned. They weren't original. While the rest of the attic used rough-sawn planks, this eight-foot section was finished with tongue-and-groove pine, identical to the studs I’d found in the wall.

I slid the pry bar into the seam. I didn't yank. I applied slow, steady pressure, feeling the modern screws groan as they fought the steel. The wood splintered with a sound like a gunshot in the confined space.

I stopped, my lungs burning, waiting for the house to react. Nothing.

I pulled the board free and shoved it aside, then another, until I had a gap wide enough for a person to pass through. I leaned over the dark opening, shining my light down into the silence.

The beam traveled ten feet down, hitting the bundle I’d seen through the drill hole. The green nylon was coated in a gray, furry mold, but the metal zipper glinted like a bared tooth.

She stepped onto the joists, directly above the sealed room.