Descriptive Writing

The Attic

It’s night. It begins to rain outside. The full-moon is now tucked away in a pillow of clouds, with only a faint glimmer of light outside. I can  hear the sharp flowing sheets of liquid making a noise on our roof. I hear howls from the attic. I know of the demon that creeps within and slowly, like a tear a puddle is formed on my ceiling it’s as if the attic is calling, if not crying for help, with each howl it had made.

The attic above contains a monster, this is what I hear from the old night-time stories read to me. I have grew weary with each fault and flaw that is above me. Every night I hear its dreaded breath like a passing wind, the wooden floor boards of the above came with a squeak after each howl and left me wanting to have a peek. But, no door nor stair can take you there , its stand alone at its own high tower.

I do not know what dwells in the attic above, but I hear of its mischievous deeds from my parents, they speak as if they seen it before.”What’s up in the attic?” I ask them. They did not know, as they had not gone up there for a long while. But yet they state in confidence. “There are many things up there, such as antiques, paintings and old relics.” They even went far as to say “It’s perfectly safe to go up there.” However I was in doubt of that fact. They were very dismissive of the beast which I had asked about and with that, I had ended the parade of my questionings. They had also said “I would surely find something rewarding in the attic if I was to go.” So I sought  to see for myself, perfectly safe they said, and perfectly safe it will be, I hope. It is now 12 o’clock midnight.

Stepping closer to the entrance of the high tower I see with a closer inspection, that it is only an attic. I say this to myself to only reassure all my past fears were a delusion dreamt by me, the me who had believed such old stories told by my parents with such folly. I grab the metallic ladder which laid upon the wall of rot unhesitatingly. Everyone is asleep and I’m alone, not knowing what I’m doing, I only went through the motions, unfolding the ladder, placing it securely in place, turning on my flash-light and then, the light shone upon the attic door.

The door handle of the attic is embezzled in bronze diamond-like shapes, with what would have seemed to be done by a skilled craftsman. Then I realized, I saw beauty in what I should have surely feared.

Disorientated, I have failed to realize what I’m doing, my goal long now vague of what I am fearing, now with night becoming day, I see not the entrance to a dark abyss, but to a normal attic door, it’s like a puzzle becoming solved. Slowly releasing the uneasiness from my breath I looked at the attic with a vivid gaze of acceptance.

I had begun to climb up the ladder. I felt the uneasiness once running through my veins dissipating. One foot then the next, I went up, with only the silence to comfort me, after each step I took.  Suddenly I found myself at the attic door. I opened it without a blink of hesitance. I had always wondered what was in there, the fearful beast or the wonderful old antiques and beautiful paintings I heard from my parents, and so…the day of reckoning has arrived and for me to see, in what I hoped to be beauty.

Bewildered by the scene around me in the attic, I had saw beauty in what was not. What I saw was nothing more than a large amount of decay, the beautiful paintings, the antiques, the things that I have long forgotten and my hope were all left in decay of rot.

The large beams which held up this prideful attic, now begins to crumble away. The dent in roof had allowed strips of light to pass through, and then, I saw the full view of the room around me.  Strangely, I came to realize next to me there are 21 old  pawn chess pieces lied next to me. Looking across the room I came to notice, the walls are covered in moss, I could see the termites crawling in the wooden wet floor boards and ahead of me, was the paintings I heard so much about, covered in a wet damp mould. Bits of dust and leaves were scattered all around the attic, which I can only suspect came in from the openings of the roof.

But now how did I feel about this attic? Was it fear? No, for the monster no longer exists. Perhaps, some sort of joyfulness? It’s neither that, as the paintings I wanted to see are now ruined. Maybe it’s only sympathy, sympathy for this poor old attic. Is this…my reward?