The Wolf in the Attic by Paul Kearney Read Free Book Online Page A

enter. It has a recessed catch of brass, and looks as though it has been painted over at least once.
    I shove the cabinet aside. Things tinkle within, and there is the thin thump of something delicate toppling, but I am undeterred by such trifles. The dust makes me cough, and rises like smoke in the yellow candlelight. I grasp the brass half-moon catch and pull on it. The painted-over door will not budge.
    Here at least, I am prepared. I have my knife with me this time. Not a weapon, but a tool, I say firmly to Pie, and there is a difference. There must be a difference.
    I run it along the line of the little doorway, the paint scoring and flaking off under the blade. Once or twice the knife goes astray and scores the door itself, leaving a quite horrible looking scar. But it is too late to back out now, I tell Pie. And I keep going.
    Only to stop again a second later, listening.
    Just for a moment, I thought I heard something, a sliding thump, something… moving. It came from the attic above.
    ‘Rats,’ I say to Pie. ‘But I’m not afraid of them. They’re cowards, and I have a knife, after all.’ The tool that is a weapon.
    Faint and far away, the clocks below strike the quarter hour.
    I grit my teeth, and say through them, ‘Fortune favours the bold, Pie,’ and I continue with my work, the hard white lead paint springing off in scales, until there is movement in the door, a kind of give that was not there before. My knuckles are sore and my fingers too. I have paint chips under my nails and in my hair. I look at the candle. There is still an inch of it left. I put three fingers through the half-moon catch, and pull with all my might.
    There is a squeal of wood on wood, and it is open. All at once, a breath of air brushes past me, as cold as a grave, and I shiver. The hour seems much later than it is, and the tall old house seems to have somehow withdrawn in the dark, as though something in its very fabric had changed with the opening of the little hidden doorway.
    ‘What rot!’ I say aloud, but I know my voice shakes, and seems far too loud for the silent, shrouded room.
    I retrieve Pie, fold up my knife, and peer through the little door.
    Wooden steps leading up, steep and stark.
    ‘Here we are Pie,’ I say, and I tilt her head back so that her black glass eyes close in agreement.
    I crouch and enter the little staircase. One step up, then two. I look down at the black hatch of the door and have a sudden terror that it will slam shut behind me.
    ‘Rot,’ I repeat through gritted teeth, and as I ascend the stairs I keep the words coming, one with every step.
    ‘Balderdash. Bosh, tosh, bunkum and bilge…’ The words run out. But ‘Bollocks!’ escapes from my mouth as the steps come to an end, and there is another door, the twin of the one below, the brass of its handle dull in the shaking light of my little candle.
    ‘Rats won’t hurt us. They’ll run away,’ I say to Pie, to keep her spirits up. ‘The trick is, not to let them know you’re afraid.’
    This door has never been painted over, and it swings open easily, but creaks horribly as it does, making me jump.
    There is that breath of chill air again, as though a deeper winter has hold over this room, and beyond that, a smell in the air, musky, animal-like. It is quite pungent.
    ‘Rats,’ I whisper to Pie. And I make my face grim and resolute.
    I straighten up, my candlelight leaping upwards on beams and braces, exposed brick, curtained cobwebs, and blocks of black shadow. I brace myself for scurryings and squeaks and little eyes gleaming in the dark, but there is nothing. No rats, despite the smell. Just a heavy stillness, and that hanging bitter cold.
    I step forwards, raising the candle high. It gutters as I do, and I see that I am directly below the skylight. It is the one which faces west, towards the Meadow, and to my surprise I see that it is not closed, but raised and open, with one of its four panes broken. No wonder it is so cold up