The face in the attic

Yesterday, I realised I’m living inside a horror novel.  It’s not a pleasant discovery to make, let me tell you.

It happened when Fiona ordered me to start shoving boxes of junk up into the attic of our new house.  The boxes of junk I put up came out of the attic of our old house.  Before that, they sat in the attic of our other previous house for about five years.  Why we even bother lugging the boxes around with us when we move, I have no idea.

Anyway, I clambered up into the attic with only a very dim torch to battle the dark.  Anyone who has read the first INVISIBLE FIENDS book will be fully aware that some scary stuff goes down in the attic, so this was at the back of my mind as I squeezed through the narrow hatch and pulled myself into the loft space.

When I made it up, I discovered there were some random odds and ends lying around up there.  Some planks of wood here, some paint pots – their contents long ago dried up – there.  Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

I picked my way along the wooden beams (the attic doesn’t have a proper floor) until I found somewhere to put the first box down.  As I did, something caught my eye.  It was half concealed by a big wedge of loft insulation, but I realised it was the back of a framed painting.

Thinking I may have stumbled upon a priceless masterpiece (I get carried away like that sometimes) I picked up the painting and turned it around.

Imagine the scene then.  Me, in a dark and unfamiliar attic, with only a 10 Watt torch for company, turning the picture over to be met with this:

I’ll confess, my heart actually stopped beating for about fourteen seconds.  I mean, look at it.  It’s creepy enough here in photograph form, but imagine coming face to tearful face with it in the dark.  Imagine being all alone with those accusing eyes glaring up at you.

Now imagine that your job is to know the conventions of the horror genre inside and out.  As a horror writer, I know what happens next.  I’m aware that you don’t just find a painting of a crying girl in an empty attic, with the wind howling outside, and that’s the end of the story.  Oh no.  This is only the beginning.

I’ll probably be shaving when I hear the crying.  I’ll pause for a second, mid-lather, convinced I heard the faint sobs of a child.  Of course, I’ll quickly convince myself I didn’t hear anything and resume shaving, which is why I’ll almost slice my own throat when the crying comes again, louder this time.

Sitting here thinking about it, I know the sensible thing to do will be to run out of the house and never look back.  Sure, it’s easy to say that now, but on Tuesday or Wednesday or whenever I hear it, I just know I’ll go looking for whoever is doing the crying.  I feel like an idiot even suggesting that’s what I’ll do, but the simple fact of the matter is that the conventions of the horror genre will demand it, and I’ll be powerless to resist.

My search will eventually lead me up into the attic.  I’ll head up, despite the fact the torch begins flickering wildly, and I’ll search around.  Finding no-one, I’ll be drawn to the picture again.  I’ll edge over to it, then slowly turn it over.  Perhaps I’ll gasp with shock on finding the picture blank.  Perhaps I’ll scream and crap my pants.  We’ll play that one by ear.

Whatever, the moment I turn to run back for the hatch, that’s when I’ll see her.  She’ll be standing there, her face buried in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.  It is at this point that my brain will simply switch itself off through sheer terror.  The last thing I’ll see is the girl pulling her hands away, revealing tears of blood trickling down her pale, sunken cheeks, and I will know that evil has been unleashed upon the world.

So, not the best start to the week, then.