Chapter 2: Attic

Rain pattered softly against the warped old attic windows, the heavy, gray skies allowing little light into the peaked room. Alice didn't mind the quiet or the stillness oreven the rise of choking dust her feet stirred as she shuffled through the collection of boxes, moth-eaten clothing, and odds and ends filling the humid space. In fact, for the first time since her mother dragged her from Denver all the way south to Louisiana, Alice was sort of enjoying herself.

It was the first time since she, her mom, and her brother, Evan, landed in the town of Walden that Alice was able to go off on her own and find a little peace and quiet. It seemed like ever since Betty Blunt told her unenthusiastic kids they were leaving everything behind in Colorado to take up residence in their ancestral home, the whole world had been one big mess of noise and discomfort.

Alice tried not to complain, but it wasn't easy. Especially when Evan, older and cooler, shirked his duties to run off with a pack of guys his age. Not that she was upset he was gone or anything. It saved her from his constant and nasty torture.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a dust covered mirror and looked away quickly.

Alice didn't need the old house to remind her how plain she was. How boring and ordinary. Ugly, according to Evan. There were times Alice agreed with him.

Someone moved around downstairs. Alice escaped to the attic the moment she could to get away from her mother and her prying and nosy Aunt Christine. The woman swept into their lives the moment they arrived and started harping on Betty and Alice within seconds in her twanging southern accent.

It didn't take long for Alice to learn to hate the woman's voice. Or her attitude. The way she treated Alice's mother, her younger sister. How she smelled like the perfume aisle of a drug store and looked like she'd just come from the salon. Perfect hair, perfect clothes, white smileÉall of it doing nothing to hide her arrogance and judgment.

"Is this Alice?" Aunt Christine's smile wavered, red lips quirking as she gave Alice the once-over. The look made her want to scrub her arms and shudder, but Alice held still. Wouldn't do to let the predator know she was spooked.

The woman tried for a hug, managed a brief and insincere embrace and two air kisses, one for each cheek. Alice pulled away gladly, gasping out a breath she held in so she didn't have to inhale any more of the woman's synthetic aroma than necessary. Her mother Betty smiled, a forced thing Alice recognized as the same one her mom used when her dad showed up once a year for his half-day visit, which meant Alice hadn't seen it in years.

Lucky for Alice, the sisters wandered off to chat, ignoring her. Suited her just fine.

Especially considering she was left to her own devices. She stood there a long time, absorbing the feeling of the house, loving the old plantation's quiet, wide foyer. The walls themselves seemed to whisper to her, the heavy, musty air calling her name. Not really but Alice liked to imagine it was true.

The place was huge, full of old furniture, some of it stacked up in piles, the legs dark with water stains. Betty explained the house saw some damage when Hurricane Katrina rolled through New Orleans, but the house was located far enough up the west coast of Lake Pontchartrain only a bit of water came in.

It hadn't taken Alice long to peek in the upper rooms nor to find the attic. Now she stood, eyes closed, listening to the warm afternoon rain and the soft creaks and groans the old place made around her. Alice could almost imagine she was in touch with the spirits of the house, the ghosts who had to live here. After all, her family built it back when there were still slaves in Louisiana, long before the quiet neighborhood street was anything but cotton fields. As far as Alice knew, slaves lived in this very house. The idea made her shudder.

Alice sifted through some old photos, mostly black and whites, and wondered if she'd uncover any pictures of her mother when she was a teenager. Betty rarely talked about growing up in Louisiana, or anything at all about her family, for that matter. Only that she left the house when she was right around Alice's age, and never came back.

Any attempts to make her mom talk about it were met with either anger or an abrupt change of subject, so Alice gave up asking years ago. Still, now they moved in and took over the old place, she was pretty sure she'd be able to uncover some answers at last.

Not that it really mattered. Alice sighed and sat on an old, wobbly chair, her faded jeans rising up to reveal her ankles. She hated this pair, how they were too short and made her look nerdy. But her mom insisted she wear them at least another six months before investing in any new ones. "I'm not made of money," Betty always said. Not that it kept her from buying Evan the latest in sneakers or anything at all he needed for football. Naturally.

Alice lifted a leather-bound book and opened it. More pictures. These seemed newer, but still too old for Betty. She figured they had to be of her grandmother, maybe. The whole reason they were in Louisiana in the first place. Alice never met Betty's mom, had never even seen her picture. She studied the black and white photo of the pretty girl with the dark hair who smiled back at her. Looked like some kind of party. The girl wore a frilly white dress with gloves and everything. So old fashioned. It made Alice sigh again.

She set the book aside and let her eyes drift around the attic. So much to explore. She just hoped her mother wouldn't get rid of everything before Alice had the chance. Betty was already talking about some kind of auction to make money to fix up the house. How her mother shouldn't have been allowed to live downstairs with all the water damage.

Alice knew Betty blamed Aunt Christine and now she had met her aunt, she was on her mother's side.

When the lawyer called only a month ago, Alice knew right away something was really wrong. Betty never could keep her emotions from her face. It took her three whole days to sit Evan and Alice down, to explain to them their grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's and moved to a nursing home. That, in her papers, given to her lawyer for just such an occurrence, the house was to be turned over to Betty.

Alice was pretty sure it wasn't sitting well with Aunt Christine. Not when the woman's first act upon entering the place was to look around like she owned everything in it.

The voices downstairs drew closer. Alice wished she closed the door to the attic and made a face. Wouldn't be long now before Betty and Aunt Christine found her and made her leave.

Alice got up, dusted off her too-short jeans and headed for the door, pausing when she heard her own name.

"ÑAlice will fit in here," Betty was saying.

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Aunt Christine said. The tap of high heels on the wood floor turned to thudding on the hallway runner before falling still. "I hope so." Alice winced at the tone of her mom's voice. "She had such a hard time in Denver. Making friends."

Blood rushed to Alice's cheeks, making her feel dizzy while her embarrassment wanted to eat her up.

"Well, my Claire is the most popular girl in school." Christine said it like it was the most important thing for a teenager to aspire. "If anyone can help your Alice fit in, it's my Claire."

Alice turned away from the door, ears ringing with anger, hands shaking. How dare they talk about her like that? She didn't care even a little bit if she was popular or had friends or was alone all the time. The bitter feeling of betrayal jabbed sharp and horrible. Her own mother didn't think she was good enough.

Her sneaker struck something hard. Alice bent and grabbed the large, heavy shoe, its dust covered leather cracked with age. In a pique of rage she threw it as hard as she could across the room, not caring what it struck.

The large, man's shoe flipped over and over, traveling farther than she expected. It hit the brick chimney at the back of the attic so hard she heard a crack of stone.

"Alice?" Her mother's voice drifted closer. That and the sound of the impact was enough to snap Alice out of her anger. Instead of answering Betty, she made her way through to the chimney so she could inspect the damage she'd done.

A brick had come loose, hanging sideways, but still clinging to the stack of the flue.

Alice reached for it, felt the crumbling weight of it in her hand as it slid through her fingers and crashed to the floor, landing on top of the offending shoe. Alice giggled a little, unable to stop herself, despite the familiar rush of guilt she felt when she did something wrong. Seemed ironic. As she heard her mother call out for her again, Alice's eyes lifted to the hole the brick left behind and spotted something deep in the cavity.

Alice leaned close, fingers exploring the narrow opening. She flinched from the soft stickiness of spider webs, hoping the owners would scurry for cover rather than bite her. Her nails brushed over something, hooked in the edge. Alice gently pulled it closer before getting a good grip on it and tugging it free.

The cloth wrapping smelled of mildew, dusty and crumbling with age. Alice let the old handkerchief fall away and examined the long, narrow wooden box it had beenhiding. The lid was tight, slid into narrow rails to keep it secured. It took Alice a moment to wriggle the thin slat free and have a peek inside.

A doll looked back at her. But not a pretty doll, all porcelain with flowing hair and painted on eyelashes. This doll looked primitive, made from some kind of burlap or sackcloth, with two mismatched buttons for eyes and black string sewn on for a mouth.

It wore a tiny blue dress with ruffled lace, far more suited to the other kind of doll. Alice felt instantly captivated by it, so much she pulled the lid back harder to reveal the rest of it. The tip of her finger slipped, a splinter lodging in her skin.

She murmured a cry of pain and looked at her finger. A drop of blood oozed out around the piece of wood. Alice balanced the box in her injured hand and used her fingernails to dig out the sliver. The doll leaned precariously, revealing a handful of

pearl-topped stick pins. Alice flicked the splinter away, eyes locked on a single pin buried deep in the right leg of the doll. She reached for it without thinking, pulling it free just as the drop of her blood fell from her hurt finger and landed on the very spot the pin slid from. The bright crimson spot wicked away in an instant, gone as if it had never been there. Only a small circle of rust remained behind. Alice examined the pin, thumb brushing over the rusty patch causing the discoloration.

Someone sighed. It was a soft sound, gentle and very happy. Startled, Alice almost dropped the box, pin and all. But as she looked up, the sun broke through the clouds, shining into through the dust coating the windows, lighting the attic with floating dust motes and a hazy rainbow, so much beauty she forgot all about the sound she'd heard.

"Alice!"

Her mother's footsteps on the attic stairs woke her panic. Alice dropped the pin back in the box and slid the lid into place. Not knowing why she needed to keep her find a secret, she slid the box inside her baggy sweatshirt to keep it safe and headed for the stairs.

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