The Attic (Completed)

Chapter 8

Lily's head hurt and she groaned out loud, clutching it.

At first she had no clue where she was. Then the memories of the attack in the pool room washed over her consciousness like a crashing wave. She snapped her eyes open and lifted her head. She lay in a heap in the front entranceway of the mansion, just beyond the Persian rug. Moonlight poured in through the window, reflecting off the black marble floor beneath her and accentuating the trailing white veins. Farther down the corridor, where the moonlight failed to reach, was a gaping darkness.

Far off, deep within the mansion, someone was crying again.

Faintly.

Lurching to her feet, Lily stumbled up the staircase and frantically yanked open the door leading into Mike's bedroom. Pushing it shut behind her, she turned the lock and ran to his bedside—nearly tripping over a pile of clothes in her haste.

He was already awake and turning on the lamp on his nightstand.

Mike's room was like hers but flipped, with a similar sitting area surrounding a fireplace and a hand-carved canopy bed. She climbed up on it and sat at the foot.

He struggled to sit up and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index. "Lily?" He blinked at her. "What's going on?" The room was mostly dark but thanks to the lamp, the area around his bed was suffused in muted orange light.

She hugged her waist, heart racing. "S-someone's after me—" Her back was painfully rigid and she struggled to control her breathing. She took a deep breath. "I didn't know where else to go—"

He leaned forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. "What are you talking about?"

She gave him a frenzied look. "The baths, the murdered maid—!"

"Ahh. You're delirious then." He exhaled and let go of her shoulders. "You must have had a nightmare." He scratched his head and gave her a curious look.

Lily reached around to touch her lower back, flinching, and withdrew her hand—holding it out for Mike to see. Her fingertips were wet and red.

Mike's eyes widened and he threw back the blankets, jumping from the bed. He examined her back and helped her down. "How'd this happen?" he asked, dropping his voice to a cautious undertone and casting a glance toward the closed door. He sat her down on a ladder-back chair at his desk.

She tried to explain the attack, piecing together the fragmented memories; but the more she said, the crazier it sounded.

Mike switched on an overhead chandelier and scrounged around in a nearby cabinet, withdrawing a First Aid kit.

"Could've been caused by anything, I guess," he said, sounding calm again. "Are you sure you didn't just scrape it against a statue while the lights were out?"

She straddled the chair and held the back of her shirt partway up. "I . . . I don't know."

He examined her back again. "It's not as bad as it seems," he said, setting down the kit on the desk and opening it. He disinfected the wound and she bit her lip to lessen the sting. "I don't think you need any stitches," he said. "It's just superficial—about two inches long."

She was beginning to feel embarrassed, but even if she had inflicted the wound herself on a statue, surely she hadn't imagined the voice or the breathing? or the white robed arm that grabbed her and knocked her out?

There was also the question of how she ended up at the front door.

Mike finished taping the wound over with gauze. She turned around in the chair to face him. "Shouldn't we call the police or check up on everyone to make sure they're okay?" she said. "What if whoever it was is still here?"