Ameila's box

I haven't edited this properly so it may contain poor grammer, punctuation and stuff that simply doesn't make sense! If so, apologies.
*warning* contains scene some may find disturbing

Amelia’s box

I knew for certain which boxes I‘d left scattered around the loft and I was sure the one next to the chimney stack did not belong to me. It was small with childish writing on the side (it may have said ‘Amelia’, it was very difficult to tell) but where it came from I did not know. I would have been more curious of its contents if it hadn’t have been for the small circle of light coming from a hole in the wall, poorly concealed as it had been by the box. I pushed it to one side and peered closely at the hole. My first concern was a structural problem gone unnoticed by the survey on my home. As I probed deeper, however, I could see that it did not lead to the outside air but was, in fact, a tiny passage into another section of the loft.

I came downstairs and went outside to take a look at the roof from the road. If my judgement was correct Amelia’s box would have been placed just to the left of the chimney which rose above the facing wall of the house just to the left of my daughter’s bedroom window. It was obvious from this quick inspection that there was no room for the loft to go any further than the chimney stack and there was no clear evidence of a hole in the brickwork or the tiling.

“What are you doing Daddy?”

It was my daughter, Ester. She was still settling into our new home and new school and needed regular reassurance. I didn’t want to unsettle her by discussing the alien box and impossible hole it covered.
“There’s a problem with pipes,” I lied.
My curiosity aroused and Ester placated I went back into the loft to look further into the small hole. I found that second time around it was just big enough for me to fit inside. I crawled through a short tunnel and found myself in a tiny room. It was musty and ill-lit – a small, opaque window allowed only minimal light to enter. A rough, faded square of striped red and white carpet covered the floorboards. The walls were grubby and covered in what looked to me like rough sketches drawn by a child’s hand.

I found it difficult to breathe in there and the walls felt everso close, but it was oddly relaxing and the complete absence of noise gave the compartment a serene feel. I was oddly reluctant to leave but I needed to collect my wife from work and cook dinner for the family. Ester asked me again that evening what I had been doing in the loft for so long. I was about to tell her about the compartment but felt that she really didn’t need to know. I would find out more before either causing her to worry or be excited about it.
The next time I crawled in there I was instantly comforted by its mood. I was able to lie flat on the floor and have a cigarette before taking in the surroundings once again. There were two piles of books against the wall. Children’s books. Well worn and well read. There were no toys but it became apparent to me that this was a room not necessarily meant to entertain a child, merely adapted by a child in order to be a haven. No matter. The longer I spent there the more beautiful it felt. There was no noise. There was no movement. The scribbled drawings on the walls told a story I was unable to decipher, but I was diverted by its simplicity for a short time and it made me feel content. It occurred to me as I laid there that Ester would love this place. She was still young enough to get pleasure from fantasy and make believe. This place would inspire many juvenile daydreams. But not just yet. This, I felt with increasing conviction, was my place. My solace. My space. For now, anyway.

Close to a doze I was roused by a faint scrabbling noise from the entrance to my compartment. With an unaccountable rise of panic I crawled quickly and unceremoniously back into the loft, halted briefly by a sudden aroma of vile and unclean disgust at the mouth of the compartment. It dissipated as quickly as I sensed it, but it pricked my curiosity and caused me to wonder what could have caused such a nauseating stench. There was nothing obvious to suggest anything living or dead could have done so, so I left with a little less reluctance than only a few moments before to continue with the usual daily chores and duties.

It was several days before I returned to my compartment. My work had been busy and Ester had been unsettled at her new school once again. I found myself alone in the house, finally, and with little to occupy me. Ester was at ballet and my wife was due to collect her later, so I climbed the loft stairs hungrily and almost threw myself into my cell. The compartment felt more comforting still and, rather oddly, a little larger than the last time. I was able to stretch more fully out on the coarse floor and light up my cigarette.

The silence embraced me. The soft light from the tiny window drifted unevenly across the walls and low ceiling. I found myself drifting into a state of such calm I could barely move. Not that I wanted to. I felt, peace; as if I had no further use in the world. No responsibility. No accountability. It was an unusual feeling. But I savoured it. I allowed it to wallow in me. Even the scrabbling noise at the mouth of my cocoon did not alert me to any threat; so entrenched in the severe hush of the place that the noise seemed far, far elsewhere. My energy had deserted me. I had no need to be vigilant or alert to anything. I let it wash over me.

Sudden instinct raised head up and opened my eyes. Stood at my feet was a young girl, around five years old, a smile fixed on me. Her long, dark hair was matted and greasy. Her face pale and grimy. Her sordid smile displayed stained teeth and oozing gums. Her eyes…

“Hello,” I said. Fear gripped me.

“My eyes are black,” she announced.

I tried to sit up but the calm of my compartment was suddenly a huge weight that held me down. The solace of before was replaced with horror. Her eyes stared into my chest. Her wide, hungry, black eyes. Black hair. Black eyes – as black as the universe. I tried to scream but no noise came. That vile smell from the mouth of the compartment the last time I had fled knocked me back further. I wanted to vomit, but my mouth was tight shut.

“My eyes are black and pretty,” she said. Her voice was shrill and desperate.

She started to crawl on top of me. Her hands and knees were grinding into my legs. As she got closer to my stomach I saw the blood from her gums drip onto my stomach. Her revolting smell intensified and engulfed me like fire. I tried to raise my arms to push her off me but all my strength had long since departed. Her head jerked left to right and her waxy hair flicked across my chest. A small glob of blood splattered on wall.
“My eyes are black. My pretty eyes. My pretty black eyes.”
She crawled onwards across my body until her face was level with mine. The stench of her breath sickened me to the core. She felt incredibly light but still I could make no use of any of my limbs. Every cell in my useless body screamed with a desire to push her from me and make my escape. But I was immobile. Her eyes were level with mine. Her evil smile widening with what I realised was hunger. She started to open her mouth. Blood from her gums dripped onto my face. She closed her mouth again and giggled.

“My eyes,” she whispered.

I was defeated. I had no fight in me. I just wanted release. She brought her mouth to my ear and whispered, “I shall eat now. I haven’t eaten for so long…”

Suddenly, now, she is gone. Her stench remains but her body has vanished. I feel no relief, however. My instinct, stunted by horror as it is, tells me a worse menace is about to spear me. And I’m not wrong – the ceiling is closing in and the walls are drawing closer! My cocoon is tightening with such swiftness I have no space to breathe. My feet are quickly pressed against the wall and my face squeezed against the dirty wood of the ceiling. I have no more breath to take. I am being squashed like a fly. My organs start to compact and crush against each other. Death is surely seconds away…

“Daddy! Are you up here again?”

Ester’s voice shatters my cell. I’m about to take a lungful of such welcome air when I hear close to me a scream of such pain and misery and loss like that I can’t help but feel a sense of pity. But the suffocation is gone. I am lying on the floor at the edge of my dusty attic surrounded by boxes. Standing in front of me is my little girl looking curiously at me.

“What are you doing Daddy?” She asks.

I don’t know how to answer that question. I’m lying here on the floor of my attic trying to get some good breaths and I feel, I find it hard to describe…constricted. I don’t know why I should feel like this. I’m sweating terribly and my clothes feel very tight, and why I’m lying here on the floor God only knows. I’m not even sure what brought me up here in the first place. Ester is giving me a very curious look. She looks so pretty in her ballet outfit. I feel a sudden rush of love for her – my little girl. I feel everso emotional about her and about everything we’ve gone through over the last few months – since the move. I don’t know why or where it all came from or why I’ve stood up and embraced her with such conviction. I don’t know much about anything to do with my present situation. All I know is that I must always be good to my daughter.

“What’s this?” She asks a little while later, picking up a small cardboard box I haven’t seen before.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “It’s not one I recognise.”

“Amelia,” she says to herself, studying the outside of it. “And look! There’s a little knife and fork inside. How strange!”

“Yes, very odd,” I say. An indescribable sense of discomfort overcomes me and I decide the time has come to go back downstairs.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ll cook you some dinner.”