Foreward:
The ancient Celts called Halloween 'Samhain', and for them it was a day that did not exist in time; a gateway between the old year and the new. Because the veil between the realms of the dead and the living are so thin on this day, spirits and mortals have the opportunity to walk together and mingle their existence. The setting for this story is All Hallow's Eve, Halloween, this day-between-days.
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When I was a little girl, I often spent much time in my Grandmother's attic, sifting and sorting through old boxes and trunks. I recall a floor-length folding mirror up there, tall and dusty. I would stand before the middle mirror and close the other two sides around me, caging myself in with an image of myself every direction I turned, and echoing into the reaches of infinity within the reflections of the silvered planes. In this way I was never alone.
But then, I was never alone in the attic. My parents had been killed in a car accident before I was too young to mourn them, and I went to live with my Grandma Emily. Grandpa Jack had died before I was born, and it was just me and Emily, so I suppose I should have felt very much alone- but in the attic I surrounded myself with ghosts of the past, memories waiting to be discovered and explored. It was these long forgotten nicknacks that kept me company, and in childhood, it was to these things that I attached myself, spoke with and divulged my secrets to.
My Grandma Emily died this past month. It has been many years since I have visited the attic- I stopped venturing up there sometime during my early teens, recognizing that only
babies
played games of the imagination. And so, perhaps, this attic has not been visited for twenty-some odd years, and now I climb the wharped wooden stairs to the dusty realm of my childhood.
I am not sure what has drawn me to Emily's attic this afternoon, other than the comfort that this place brought me in my youth. I have inherited my Grandmother's century old farmhouse, and have just finished bringing in the last of my moving boxes, stacked them in the living room, taped up and labeled neatly. It is my place now, as are the things inside, but half of these objects are long forgotten, lost somewhere in the recesses of my mind. I am on a journey of discovery.
---
Ascending the stairs that led to her Grandmother's attic, Katherine Mallory was assaulted first with a musty smell, and secondly with large ammounts of dust. Peeking her head up into the attic, she could see dust motes dancing lazily about in the sunlight that the room's only window provided, and laying in a thick coating on the floor. Scrambling excitedly up the steps, she smiled about herself, taking in each trunk and pile; the small square window; the rusted birdcage in the corner; there in the center of the room, a folding mirror. Her eyes drifted down to the floor, noting scuffed footprints in the thick dust.
"What the...?" Kathy bent down, tracing a line near one of footprints with a drawn finger. A small circular track had also been made, the imprint of the rubber at the base of a cane.
So, the attic hasn't been untouched these past years.
Judging by the freshness of the footprints, her Grandmother had visited the attic not long before she died.
Kathy tried to imagine her Grandmother struggling up the steep stairs, pausing every so often to take a rest. It must have taken forever for the old woman who could barely walk.
And she had a nurse. Why didn't Emily call the nurse to fetch something from the attic if she needed it so desperately?
Kathy boggled at the notion.
What could have been so important?
Intruiged, she followed the trail in the dust, which ended abruptly near a wall, and then turned around. The footprints thickened here, the dust muddled. There was a spanse near the edge of a wood panel in the floor that seemed to be cleared of grime and boasted several smudged fingerprints. In sudden realisation, Kathy sat down indian-style near this spot, curiosity her motivation, and dug her fingernails along the edge of the board. A few minutes and a splinter under her thumbnail later, the board relinquished its task of guarding her Grandmother's hiding spot, and Kathy set it aside, peering into the space under the floor.
A box. Covered in packing tape.
Kathy grasped her fingers around the small parcel, extracting it from its nest. Turning it over and examining its outer surfaces, she found the end of the stiff and powerful tape. Pulling on it almost frantically with excitement and anticipation, Kathy threw the tape aside, tearing and digging.
When she had finally finished with her task, she set the box in front of her, unopened, staring down at it. It was cardboard, and she could see places where the tape had torn off the surface layer. A box. And Katherine Mallory was scared of it.
It wasn't so much that Kathy was scared of the box, so much as she was scared of the sanctity she had disturbed by finding it. By opening this parcel, she was however indirectly but nevertheless disobeying the woman who had raised her.
And what did Emily have to hide?
Kathy recalled her grandmother: sweet, charming, loved by all. Unease. An image rose in her mind- that of her Grandmother rising from the grave and extracting revenge on her naughty kin, but she quickly pushed it aside.
What if it is money? What if Emily had actually wanted me to find the package?
With trembling hands, she opened the lid. Reaching inside, her hands felt a small stack of loose papers before her eyes could lay sight on the mysterious contents, but that was not suprising so much as the sight of what lay inside...
Her own eyes were staring back at her.
Kathy gasped, and papers rained into her lap and onto the floor, scattering this way and that. Her heart suddenly beating wildly, she stared down in shock at the mixture of papers and photographs on the floor. She blinked back her disbelief, and looked again. Sure enough, there she saw herself- staring back from black and white photographs... nude.
It took Kathy a few moments before she had collected herself enough to inspect the photographs more closely. The apparant age of the photos, along with the appearance of a man in a few of them solved the mystery. She had seen the man's photograph on the living room wall ever since she was a little girl, and could give him a name: it was her grandfather, Jack. And here was Emily- as her grandaughter had never seen her before.
The young woman in the photograph was quite stunning, quite fiery, and above all, quite naughty. Kathy blinked in amazement at the resembelence she had to her unaged grandmother. She followed her eyes along the curve of Emily's modest breasts, noted the barely-colored nipples, slightly upturned. Her hips were rounded, familiar, leading to long muscular legs, toes pointed and lips pursed teasingly. A single lock of raven hair fell into her face, and she held her head tilted slightly to the side, exposing the smooth, long line of her neck. Breathing excitedly and feeling incredibly naughty herself, Kathy looked at this photo, and another, then another. She found Emily in various positions; ass thrust up in the air and exposing her delicate folds; Emily dipping her finger into the depths behind her pubic hair; Emily with her tongue wrapped around Jack's cock; Emily with her legs parted, a wicked smile dancing on her lips, staring straight into the camera...
She heard a noise. Kathy jerked her head up, jumping as adrenaline ran through her body. Glancing around she scanned the attic, but finding nothing she attributed the noise to her overactive imagination, and her fear of somehow being caught looking at these things. Leaning against the wall and letting her heart settle, Kathy picked up a piece of folded paper that lay amongst the scattered photographs on the floor. It was yellowed, faded with time, but the black ink it had been written with was still untouched by time. Her eyes absorbing the long, thin handwriting, she read:
My Dearest Emily,
Have you ever had a feeling of excitement that your physical body seems unable to contain? You shake, sweat, and almost cannot see straight. For what... For what do you react so? For the unasked for, the flood, the unreserved and completely given affection of your beloved. It swallows you whole, and makes you beg to be devoured again, again, and after a rest... again. Is it odd that such feelings can be contained in a mere sheet of paper? That I speak not of an encounter of bodies... but a mingling of minds?
Rapture, my dearest, is a force outside of flesh. It is an energy of the soul, meant to be shared... and only truly shared when it is meant. I love you, my angel. Touch yourself tonight, and think of me. I am closer than you could ever suspect.
Eternally Yours, Jack
Breaths shallow, Kathy let her eyes dart over the words, and then over again, her heart aching and leaping forward in her chest. The sheer ammount of passion contained within these antique words sent waves of delicious heat searing through the highways of her body, igniting her skin down to her very bones with longing. She had discovered a new definition for the word sexy, and she found that it quite suited her. Reading the letter once again, she soon found herself with her eyes closed, breathing deep, hand tracing lines along the lengths of her inner thigh. Feeling delicious, she stretched out across the dusty floor on her back, and dug her hand once more into Emily's secret treasure box, withdrawing a small book imprinted with the words: MY JOURNAL.
The book was old, its gold leafing nearly transparant and worn. A shiver of excitement coursed down her spine as Kathy wondered what secrets the book could contain. It was so very naughty, reading these things, and the feeling of somehow being caught only added to her excitement. Sitting up, she held the book to the fading light and turned to the first page.
