straining my ears, trying to tune out the saws, banging, and radio noise of the workers throughout the house.
More scratching. That could be rats. Or the cat Katenka thought she heard.
But whispers?
Dog ran up next to me, barking and whimpering, agitated and intrigued, the way he was when he treed a raccoon.
After another moment of hesitation, I reached up, grabbed the string, and pulled open the attic access door. The whispers grew louder.
Was it . . . could it be calling me?
“Mel?” The voice startled me. It was Raul, coming up the stairs. All sounds from above ceased.
“Hey, Raul.”
“Before you go today we need one of the Daleys to sign off on the paint schedule.”
“Right,” I said, glancing back up into the dark nothingness of the attic.
“What’s up, puppy?” he petted Dog, then addressed me. “Something wrong?”
“What? No, nothing’s wrong,” I fudged. “I was just about to check the insulation.”
“Newspapers.”
I nodded. Back in the day, newspapers were a common form of insulation. And as free materials go, they weren’t bad. As any homeless person could tell you, they’re cheap and effective. Newspapers pulled out of walls and ceilings of old houses could also help date a home, and made fascinating reading.
I had been in the attic before, several times. When I first took on the project, I looked through every nook and cranny of the house, and I had returned to the attic with the electrician, the structural engineer, and a city inspector. Each time I was up there I felt a strange, otherworldly sense of the weight of a gaze upon me, a tingle at the back of my neck. But for all the attention I paid to my peripheral vision, I had seen nothing, heard nothing I could pinpoint.
At first I ascribed the feelings to the usual spookiness of attics and basements, those liminal areas between the everyday and the unusual. The parts of the house that were not regularly filled with human life and breath. But now . . .
“I’ll go talk to Katenka,” I said. “I’ll try to get her to make a decision.”
As I closed the attic door, something fell. I jumped out of the way as it clanked to the floor. I scooped it up. It was a rusty metal ring, holding half a dozen very old keys.
“Where’d that come from?” Raul asked, looking overhead.
“Must have been stuck in the recess, somehow. The door felt hard to pull open; maybe the keys were lodged in the frame.”
Raul looked at them with interest. “Be nice if they’d open some of the old doors in this place, so we don’t have to take the locks apart. I like the look of them.”
“Me, too. I’ll have to check them out, and then I’ll see if Katenka wants to keep them, along with the old locks. If not, I’ll split them with you.”
Raul smiled. “You can keep ’em. I’ve got dozens.”
“So do I.”
I took the sheaf of spreadsheets from him, grabbed the book of color samples, and headed downstairs, hoping I could convince Katenka to either state her own color choices or go along with mine.
We were at the point in the renovation where the Daleys needed to make a thousand and one aesthetic choices. Unfortunately for me, they refused to hire an interior designer. I couldn’t really blame them—personally, I disliked the sort of cold, overly designed look of so many professionally “done” homes that appeared as though they were laid out for an Architectural Digest photo shoot rather than ready to live in. In such places a bottle of dishwashing detergent left out on the pounded copper countertop looked like sacrilege.
Still, interior designers had staffs and schedules and budgets, so they were simple for a general contractor like me to work with. Having to decide on every interior decision, from grout color to stain tone, made the average homeowner want to tear their hair out in a matter of days . . . or hours.
Which reminded me—Katenka and I needed to make time to visit what was referred to as “the wailing
More scratching. That could be rats. Or the cat Katenka thought she heard.
But whispers?
Dog ran up next to me, barking and whimpering, agitated and intrigued, the way he was when he treed a raccoon.
After another moment of hesitation, I reached up, grabbed the string, and pulled open the attic access door. The whispers grew louder.
Was it . . . could it be calling me?
“Mel?” The voice startled me. It was Raul, coming up the stairs. All sounds from above ceased.
“Hey, Raul.”
“Before you go today we need one of the Daleys to sign off on the paint schedule.”
“Right,” I said, glancing back up into the dark nothingness of the attic.
“What’s up, puppy?” he petted Dog, then addressed me. “Something wrong?”
“What? No, nothing’s wrong,” I fudged. “I was just about to check the insulation.”
“Newspapers.”
I nodded. Back in the day, newspapers were a common form of insulation. And as free materials go, they weren’t bad. As any homeless person could tell you, they’re cheap and effective. Newspapers pulled out of walls and ceilings of old houses could also help date a home, and made fascinating reading.
I had been in the attic before, several times. When I first took on the project, I looked through every nook and cranny of the house, and I had returned to the attic with the electrician, the structural engineer, and a city inspector. Each time I was up there I felt a strange, otherworldly sense of the weight of a gaze upon me, a tingle at the back of my neck. But for all the attention I paid to my peripheral vision, I had seen nothing, heard nothing I could pinpoint.
At first I ascribed the feelings to the usual spookiness of attics and basements, those liminal areas between the everyday and the unusual. The parts of the house that were not regularly filled with human life and breath. But now . . .
“I’ll go talk to Katenka,” I said. “I’ll try to get her to make a decision.”
As I closed the attic door, something fell. I jumped out of the way as it clanked to the floor. I scooped it up. It was a rusty metal ring, holding half a dozen very old keys.
“Where’d that come from?” Raul asked, looking overhead.
“Must have been stuck in the recess, somehow. The door felt hard to pull open; maybe the keys were lodged in the frame.”
Raul looked at them with interest. “Be nice if they’d open some of the old doors in this place, so we don’t have to take the locks apart. I like the look of them.”
“Me, too. I’ll have to check them out, and then I’ll see if Katenka wants to keep them, along with the old locks. If not, I’ll split them with you.”
Raul smiled. “You can keep ’em. I’ve got dozens.”
“So do I.”
I took the sheaf of spreadsheets from him, grabbed the book of color samples, and headed downstairs, hoping I could convince Katenka to either state her own color choices or go along with mine.
We were at the point in the renovation where the Daleys needed to make a thousand and one aesthetic choices. Unfortunately for me, they refused to hire an interior designer. I couldn’t really blame them—personally, I disliked the sort of cold, overly designed look of so many professionally “done” homes that appeared as though they were laid out for an Architectural Digest photo shoot rather than ready to live in. In such places a bottle of dishwashing detergent left out on the pounded copper countertop looked like sacrilege.
Still, interior designers had staffs and schedules and budgets, so they were simple for a general contractor like me to work with. Having to decide on every interior decision, from grout color to stain tone, made the average homeowner want to tear their hair out in a matter of days . . . or hours.
Which reminded me—Katenka and I needed to make time to visit what was referred to as “the wailing
Similar Books
