The Attic

The hatch in the ceiling is approximately three feet by five feet. It doesn’t sit flush against the ceiling and the cord that dangles from the nearest edge sways slightly, as if someone had just closed the hatch again. 

You step across the space between the cord and yourself, feeling your shoes scuff against the carpet beneath you. The wooden bulb at the end of the cord is cold and smooth in your hot palm. Your hand starts sweating in anticipation so you dry it on your thigh before reaching again for the cord.

You give it a good yank.

With a terrible creak, the hatch yawns open and down slides half of the foldable stairs. You grab the lowest stair and yank it, hearing the metal clang is it unfolds the rest of the way and locks together. You kick the bottom supports forward, pushing them further into the carpet to make sure the stairs won’t buckle as you climb them.

The treads are narrow and you have to turn sideways to fit your feet comfortably on them, especially when you reach the portion of the stairs that are directly attached to the hatch lid. 

You breach into the musty darkness of the attic. After a glance around, your eyes adjust to the new lighting. There’s a few cobwebs tucked between the rafters, but other than that the attic is well cared for. No rogue insulation lies in pieces over the walking boards. Meticulously labeled boxes are lined in rows on either side of the attic. Not a speck of dust sits upon them. 

You step up onto the walking boards that are laid across the beams. To your left is the front of the house, indicated by the rose window you saw from outside. To your right is a hatch in the roof at the back of the house. You can also see a peculiar shaft, marked by a small box and pulley system.