Every time I asked Martha about it, she gave the same answer.
“Just old junk, Gerry. Furniture from my parents’ place.”
So I left it alone.
For more than five decades.
Two weeks ago Martha slipped in the kitchen and broke her hip while baking a pie for our grandson’s birthday. The doctors said she’d need surgery and several weeks of rehab.
For the first time in years, I was alone in the house.
That’s when I started hearing the noise.
Late in the evenings, something upstairs made a slow scratching sound. Not like mice. Not like squirrels.
Heavier.
Like something being dragged across the floor.
After a few nights of listening to it, curiosity finally got the better of me.
I took Martha’s key ring from the kitchen drawer and climbed the stairs. I tried every key on that ring.
None of them opened the attic door.
That bothered me more than the noise itself.
Martha kept keys for everything on that ring.
Except the attic.
Finally I went to the garage, grabbed a screwdriver, and forced the old lock open.
The door creaked loudly when it gave way.
