The Attic

Chapter 12 - Encounter

Day: Three

Date:  March 1, 2012

Time:  2:10 P.M.

     Reading Wilfredo’s diary didn’t take me anywhere near answers, or maybe at least not yet.

                All I’ve recounted was that he’s an architect who lacked time for himself. That’s all so far. However, the unread part of the notebook was still thick enough for me to say that it has nothing more to give, so I read on, but abruptly stopped when I remembered my design downstairs, waiting to be finished.

                I knew my priorities.

                All I’ve managed to cover were three entries, so it’s too early to judge. Storing the diary in my bedside drawer, I left my bedroom to do my duty, which was due in a number of days. The monotone of my steps as I traversed the stairs reminded me of the same sound that I didn’t want to hear, especially the chains that were dragged behind them. I skipped the last step and hopped straight to the floor. I had slippers on, and they produced a loud echoing thump the moment they landed on the tiles.

                Despite being an avid fan of horror movies, I for one was weak – hearted, so the way I opened the door to my office was comparable to how an old man with rheumatism crossed the street. I feared another surprise, so I took it slow.

                The coast was clear when my work area unfolded itself, just like how I left it earlier. My coffee has gone cold, the white mug on a platter held the once warm caffeine drink.  I tried to see where I left off, tracing back to the freshest stroke of ink. I liked how the base has taken shape. I saw no difference from its rejected predecessor but I didn’t know why I liked it more. Maybe because it was a fresh start. I like fresh starts.   

                My neck started to stiffen as it remained locked like a valve’s hand wheel stuck due to accumulation of rust. All my focus was directed towards my work, my eyes tracing the lines together with the pen, each detail drawn with utmost care and retrospection.

                After seeing a healthy amount of progress, I stood up to stretch a bit and went over to the coffee maker. I cracked my exhausted fingers against each other before placing the carafe above the warming plate, my tired hands shaking with the task. I went back to work then remembered that I haven’t turned the machine on yet, so I grumpily stood up again to give it life. I must have gotten older, for my memory was actually pretty sharp. I hated making a trip twice for the same purpose, so I marched heavily to where the coffee maker was. On the process, I poured the contents of my mug outside for it was no longer warm, opening the window and spilling the coffee on the ground.

                Strangely enough, I had the feeling of being watched.

                I surveyed the vast open field whose blades of grass swayed gracefully along the wind. The afternoon sun was still bright, a flock of birds in their usual spearhead formation, tearing across the clear blue sky. I often saw jet contrails on sunny days like this, but the only white objects I noticed were the cottony clouds which appeared plump enough to serve as a comfy bed.

                Across the wide meadow place was a lone cypress a good jog away from where I was looking.

                Upon closer inspection, I saw a person’s outline standing under the shade the tree, but I couldn’t make out if it was a man or not. A strong wind passed by shortly, revealing that the individual to be a woman as her hair danced along the spring breeze.  The longer I didn’t move my eyes away, the more it turned out that she was facing my direction, but I wasn’t sure. The woman steadily stood while my muscles refused to move as well. I couldn’t tell for sure that she was looking at me, let alone if she could see me from this distance. Then again, I remembered that she was the one under the shade while the sun’s rays were against my house, enlightening everything to full clarity, so I figured that she could at least contrast me against the background.

                I’m a busy man, so I left her alone.

                Returning to my work desk, I heard my stomach growl. I realized that I haven’t eaten for hours, and I couldn’t work on an empty stomach. Doing architect stuff for an extended period of time was as good as running a mile. Though that statement was empirical, it’s really tiresome to sit out most of the day. My tongue suggested that some pastry would make a fine pair with the coffee I was waiting for, but all I had were chocolate chip cookies. Settling for the brown-spotted snack which I never ate without scattering crumbs on the floor, I left my office to raid the kitchen.

                I found the baked round molds inside a transparent jar, the same container of M&Ms, candies, gums, or basically any sweets back at my house. Looking at it made me miss my father. He never failed to fill it up whenever it was full of nothing but air. I, on the other hand, was such a brat back then, very good at stealing the cookies from the cookie jar, but he didn’t mind. It was one of the household items which I took with me when I moved in this house and it’s doing a good job reminding me how excellent of a father the one that took care of me was.

                As I carried the cookies back to my office, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching over me in a manner that I sensed being stalked. I felt eyes on me, the weight of a stare that made me constantly look over my shoulder.

                Same as before, the manner in which I opened the door to my office was turtle slow. By then, I imagined the coffee to be almost done. I placed the jar beside the coffee maker. I lifted the curvaceous carafe and poured some of the brew into my mug. The steam introduced a pleasant aroma upon entering my nostrils and I savored the flavor even before having a sip. I wanted to gulp it right away, but I was wary of scalding hot beverages. Burning my tongue was never an easy thing to get over with based on my own experience.

                I suddenly glanced at the cypress. The woman under the tree from earlier was no longer there when I checked.

                My design wasn’t going to be kind enough to draw itself, so I picked the jar up while my other hand held the platter on which the coffee mug was placed. Careful not to make the smallest spill, I was about to turn away from the outside view when a woman suddenly passed right in front of my window, crossing from left to right in one swift passing. I was short of breath as I heard the mug break the silence, its shiny broken pieces scattered on the floor, setting free the once trapped liquid that adapted to its concavity. The platter that held it was still in my grasped, and luckily, the jar as well.

                Whoever she was, she scared the hell out of me.

                Then I remembered the woman by the tree. Was it her? Pondering on the possibility made me feel my hair stand, a realization dawning unto me as I stood speechless.

                I have no neighbors.

                Rushing outside, I tried to catch up with the passerby. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the chirping of birds perched somewhere I didn’t know. I circled the house and went as far as doing it twice; counterclockwise then the opposite way. I found nobody.

                So who was that? I wondered but at the same time reckoned that the appropriate question should be what, not who.

                I stopped upon reaching the window where I saw her. Until then, I didn’t know that my office looked gloomy from the outside. Even the lonesome wouldn’t venture this far just for the shade provided by a similarly lonely tree. I thought to myself. My house was in the middle of nowhere. Who would be crazy enough to walk this far?

                The wind’s howl tugged me from my river of thoughts. The unmoving tree stood at the far gap between it and me, imagining its leaves rustling despite not hearing them do so. I walked back inside with a clouded mind. I didn’t notice that I brought the jar with me until I felt the smooth surface against my cold palms.

                I was yet to gobble up the cookies but I was already fed up with everything that’s been happening since I moved into this house. It’s not my style to appear and sound unappreciative; I’m grateful for all the blessings I’ve received, including this house. But the more I denied it to myself, the more it showed the irrefutable truth which I refused to believe. I didn’t know by whom or what, and I sure didn’t know why. But one thing’s for certain.

                This place is haunted.