Elaine Chang (11) | Staff Reporter
“Why don’t you go up and clean the attic?” My mother suggests after another stream of my insistent complaints. “You might find something you like.”
She knew exactly how to entice me – I had been begging her to drive me to the local antique shop as of late, newly fascinated with the unique history behind the old pieces.
I turn on my heel, rushing to grab a ladder. As she holds down the bottom, I climb up and push open the attic door, a cascade of dust bunnies drifting around me like snow from the untouched space.
“Gross.” I say, swatting at a particularly large cloud of dust.
My mother chuckles behind me.
“Call me if you find a rat,” she jokes as she hands me a flashlight.
“I’ll die if I find a rat, Mom.” I switch the flashlight on, the white light illuminating the dark upstairs room.
It doesn’t look like it’s ever been entered.
Cobwebs stretch from the rafters to the old, creaky supporting beams in a patchwork of thin, delicate strands. A blanket of dust drapes itself over the floor that must’ve been once distinguishable as wood. I resist the urge to cough with every extra second in the musty space.
So much for antiques, I grumble, looking for anything that I could scavenge. My eyes struggle to focus in the dark lighting. After a couple minutes fumbling with the flashlight, my eyes catch on a photobook, tucked away in the very corner.
The floorboards creak with lack of use as I make my way to where the book lies.
Almost as if it was hidden there.
I dust off the top, revealing a thick book with the word “FAMILY” burned into the soft leather. The book is held shut by a rust-touched, brass metal clasp and the page edges are coarse from the owner’s messy scrapbooking skills.
Gingerly, I open the front cover.
I find black and white photos of my mother and her family – my two aunts and late grandparents. The captures are extensive, ranging from in-house Christmas card family photos to vacation candids.
I look through the pictures, my mother’s memories captured in time. My mind fixates on one certain man, featured in a significant amount of photos, that is completely unrecognisable to me. Of course, it could easily just be an uncle or a family friend. But something in my gut tells me that isn’t the case.
There’s something unnatural about him, like he landed in the wrong decade. His clean-cut polo shirt and khaki pants aren’t reminiscent of the style that everyone else is wearing. I compare his smartly slicked hair to the shaggy mop-tops of the other men and frown.
Most concerningly, his pale eyes are looking straight into the camera, like his gaze knows exactly where to meet mine.
“Hey, Mom?” I call towards the open floorboards.
“Find something dead?”
“Not exactly,” I climb down with the photobook sandwiched under my armpit.
My mother raises an eyebrow when she sees what I’ve brought down. “What’s that?”
“Your family photo book?”
Her eyebrows furrow into confusion. “I don’t remember putting that there… are you sure that doesn’t belong to the previous owner?”
I shake my head, opening the book. “That’s you, right? And Grandma?”
She nods, still seemingly confused.
“Anyway, who’s that?” I rest my pointer finger on the initial photograph with the man.
“Who’s who? You’re pointing to a swing set, sweetie.” My mother responds. My eyes flicker back to the page, but there’s no doubt in what I’m seeing. The man’s pupils remain resolutely on mine—cold, impassive and sinister.
“Do you…not see him?”
My mother laughs a little.
“Okay, I get it, I’ll apologize for teasing you about the rat.” She pats me endearingly on the shoulder.
I look at my mother in dismay, wondering which one of us was the one going crazy.
“But…” I say, returning my gaze to the page. I braced myself to meet his ice-cold stare once more in an attempt to describe his face in detail.
There was nothing other than an empty swing set beneath my finger in the space where he once stood.
