TL;DR - Write about a hidden treasure you found in your home. Due in a week. 1000 words max. Post a link in the comments if you want.
This prompt, from a 2012 challenge, was to explore the hidden corners of your home, or a previous one, and write about a hidden treasure you found there. Was it really a treasure or was it a burden? Maybe you found a hidden truth.
As I updated my previous story, I decided to redo it in the second person point of view. Not a common style, it was used a lot in those Choose Your Own Adventure” stories. Then, you still felt you were in control, you were making the choices, but it can also be effective in conjuring up that ‘trapped’ feeling. And fun to use.
Here’s mine. 920 words
Attic Treasure
You’ve put your hair up, but it doesn’t really help; you can still feel the sweat everywhere. You slouch on the porch swing, hoping to catch a breeze from the fields, and wishing you weren’t so very bored. Everyone else has gone into town, leaving you home and alone at Grandpa’s. It’s a nice place, but there’s no cell service out here, no wi-fi. Your big sister loves to browse the stores for hours looking for the next fashion, but you’re still fine in cut-offs, a tank top, and sneakers. Maybe you should have gone anyway—at least it would have been air-conditioned.
You suddenly sit up with a smile. While they are away, this is your chance to finally see what’s in the attic. You’d asked grandpa about it, but he’d quickly changed the subject, so there must be some good secrets up there.
You rush upstairs and check the door at the end of the hall. Still locked. You stretch up on tiptoes and feel along the top of the door for a key. There’s nothing there, but a piece of the moulding seems a little loose. You carefully move it aside and reach inside—aha! You wiggle the key in the lock and open the door, the hinges stiff and creaking. You flick the light switch inside the door—nothing. No problem. You listen carefully for the sound of a car, then head up the dark stairs carefully, one hand sliding along the wall. It’s even hotter at the top—like you imagine a sauna must be. You glance over at the solitary window, covered in dust and cobwebs. That will never open, but at least it spreads a bit of dim light. The rest of the attic is shrouded in shadows. You feel dizzy with the heat and wish you’d brought a water bottle. And a flashlight. But you’re not heading back for anything, as you don’t know how much time you have before everyone gets back. Close to the window are some boxes and a trunk, all of which might be interesting, but not for now. You head into the shadows, searching for a secret, then freeze. Is there someone there? Tall, with smaller shapes at its feet, watching you. As you stare, afraid to breathe, the shape seems to shift, then resolves itself into a dressmaker’s form, with some dolls scattered beneath it. You laugh nervously and tiptoe further in, the only sounds your breath and the creaking floor. And a solitary fly, buzzing against the window, trapped.
You take a few more steps, then freeze again—now there are eyes watching you. Close together, near the ground—maybe some raccoons got in. You stop your foot and yell “shoo!” but nothing moves, other than a small cloud of dust. You stifle a sneeze, take two more slow steps, and the shapes change into a beaver and a rabbit, stuffed, with little glass eyes. You chuckle a bit now—you’re behaving like a little scaredy-cat. Behind the animals, perched atop some boxes, looms a tall shape covered with a dusty cloth. That has possibilities. You grab a corner of the sheet and give it a tug. As it slithers to the floor, you step back in surprise. Jeez, it’s ugly. It looks like some kind of vulture, with a nasty hooked beak, scabby red skin on its face, glistening eyes, dusky wings wrapped around it like a shroud, and bare yellow feet clutching a perch. The cloth must have caught on something, because suddenly the creature tips forward, seeming to lunge at you. Panicked, you scream, turn, and run, right into the corner. You can hear the whoosh of its wings and smell the carrion breath. You feel its wet hiss at her neck, and are waiting for the beak to strike, when you hear a shout.
“Hey, Patsy, we’re back, and we have ice cream. We’re down in the kitchen.”
It’s your grandpa. All is quiet behind you now. You turn and see the vulture, still there, on the floor right behind you, but obviously dead, its wings spread awkwardly as it lies at your feet. It must have hit hard, as you can see where the cruel beak has torn some splinters out of the floor.
You sidle past it carefully, give it a little kick, then run down the stairs, pushing the attic door shut behind you.
Your mom looks up. “Are you ok? You look all flushed.”
“Just hot,” you reply. “Where’s that ice cream?”
Later that night, after everyone has gone to bed, you lie in bed, listening. There are noises up in the attic, just above the bedroom. Maybe there are some raccoons, after all. It’s quiet for a minute, then you hear the creak of the door opening at the end of the hall. Silence again, for a bit, then clicks, in the hallway. Like claws against the hardwood.
You’ve thrown off the sheet to try to cool down, but now you carefully and slowly pull it back over yourself, right up to your chin. The steps are at your open door now. You can smell the putrid breath, hear the rustle of feathers as it spreads its wings.
You slowly pull the sheet right over your head, and wonder if it’s too late to scream.