Chapter 2: Secrets, Storms, and the Attic Door

Downstairs, my uncle was unloading supplies, with Grandpa and Grandma helping. The kitchen was suddenly bright and noisy, a sharp contrast to the haunted silence upstairs. Rain kept drumming on the roof, wind rattled the window frames, and thunder rolled like distant bowling balls.

Grandpa called out, “What’s up with your great-grandpa?” He tossed a bag of potatoes onto the counter, wiping rain from his brow with his sleeve.

“I don’t know. He just kept staring at the attic door.” I stood close to Grandma, seeking comfort in the familiar scent of her lavender perfume and the softness of her hand on my head.

Grandpa frowned. “I’ll go take a look.” He sounded worried, already moving toward the stairs.

But Grandma interrupted, annoyed. “Don’t go yet. We haven’t finished bringing in the stuff, and it’s pouring outside. Let’s finish first.” Her voice was sharp, used to managing both the diner and our family with equal authority.

Grandpa hesitated, then kept working. Upstairs, my great-grandpa’s groans got sharper and more chilling. I was so scared I stuck close to Grandma, clutching her apron as thunder rattled the windows.

My uncle glanced upstairs. “Dad, go check on Grandpa. Those groans don’t sound good.” He stacked boxes of canned tomatoes on the kitchen table, voice heavy with concern.

Grandma waved him off. “What’s there to check? He’s almost a hundred, always making a fuss. Ignore him, he’s not going anywhere.” She spoke with the resignation of someone who’d been a caretaker for too long, fatigue etched into every word.

Grandpa shouted upstairs, “Dad, quit making a fuss! I’ll come up after we’re done.” His voice bounced off the walls, trying to sound gruff, but I caught the tremor of worry underneath.

Once everything was inside, Grandma said, “Ed, Rachel and I haven’t eaten all day. Hurry up and make something.” She snapped the plastic wrap off a loaf of bread, setting the table with practiced efficiency.

Grandpa brought over the food. “A trucker came by earlier. He left right after ordering and didn’t pay. You all eat this.” He set the plates down, frustration clear in the slump of his shoulders.

Grandma glared at him. “How many times have I told you? Take the money first! That pork shoulder cost a fortune—now it’s wasted.” She waved a wooden spoon at him, not really angry, but annoyed enough to make her point. Grandpa rubbed his forehead and muttered under his breath, cheeks red with frustration and embarrassment.

Grandpa said, “Let Rachel eat it. It’s good for her.” He pushed the plate toward my aunt, trying to salvage the situation with a forced smile.

Grandma just scowled. My uncle tried to calm her, “Mom, don’t get upset. Business is good—a little pork shoulder isn’t a big deal.” He poured himself a glass of sweet tea, always the peacemaker.

“We still have to watch our spending,” Grandma grumbled. “Can’t throw money away.” She made a little huff, but I could tell she wasn’t really mad anymore.

She laid out paper napkins and poured sweet tea into mismatched mugs, the way she always did when things felt unsettled.

She turned to Grandpa. “Is the rent ready? Councilman Parker’s coming by tomorrow.” She gave him a pointed look, the kind that said bills were serious business.

Grandpa snorted. “When he comes, I’m going to ask him straight—what’s really up in that attic?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, eyes fixed on the ceiling above us.

Grandma looked surprised. “Ed, what do you mean?” Her voice lost its edge, curiosity and a hint of worry mixing together.

Grandpa explained, “That trucker said the attic isn’t clean, that something angry is locked up there, and told us to move out soon.” He glanced at each of us in turn, as if expecting someone to laugh or call him crazy.

Grandma paused, then scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. We’ve run the diner for three years. If there was really something up there, something would’ve happened by now.” She reached for her mug of coffee, trying to sound dismissive but not quite succeeding. She took a long sip, but her hands trembled just a little.

Grandpa said quietly, “That’s what I figured, but there’s these freaky symbols on the attic door. Gives me the creeps.” He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed in thought.

Grandma frowned at the door. “How come I never saw them?” She squinted, like she might spot something now if she just looked hard enough.

“They’re hidden under rust and dust. Only lightning makes them show.” Grandpa’s voice was barely above a whisper, and I saw goosebumps on his forearms.

As he spoke, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, making the red markings on the door stand out. The patterns seemed to shift, but before I could see clearly, the light faded and the door went back to darkness, looking even more sinister. We all held our breath, eyes glued to the door, waiting for the next flash.

Grandma stared at it. “That door gives me the creeps, but Councilman Parker’s lived here forever. We know him—he’s a good man, wouldn’t hurt anyone.” She clutched her cardigan tighter, as if the words alone could keep bad things away.

Grandpa nodded. “I think so too, but those markings are unsettling. We need to ask him for an explanation so we can feel safe here.” His voice was steady, but the worry in his eyes lingered.

“Yeah,” Grandma agreed. “We’ll ask tomorrow.” She set her mug down with a decisive clink, as if that would settle the matter for now.

A loud thunderclap rattled the windows. “It’s late, let’s go to bed,” Grandma said. She stood up, stretching the aches from her back, her silhouette framed by lightning in the window.

“Mom, it’s too hot upstairs. I’ll sleep down here tonight,” my uncle said. The downstairs room was usually for storage. He pulled a blanket from the laundry pile and tossed it onto the old sofa, already kicking off his shoes.

“Alright,” Grandma said, “just make sure all the doors and windows are closed.” She flicked the deadbolt and checked the back door twice, a nightly ritual ever since we’d moved in.

She carried me upstairs, Grandpa following. Soon, we were in our room—the innermost on the second floor, two doors down from my great-grandpa. The air upstairs was thick and muggy, thunder rumbling low and steady.

Grandma made the bed and turned off the light. Instantly, the room was pitch black. The storm had blotted out even the moonlight. In the darkness, I could only see the faint glow of Grandpa’s pipe. I clung tightly to Grandma, feeling a fear I couldn’t explain. Her hand rubbed my back, slow and steady, the same way she did when I was sick.

“Ed, why aren’t you sleeping?” Grandma asked. She lay on her side, voice low so only he could hear.

“Martha, do you remember Linda Franklin?” Grandpa’s voice was hushed, like he was afraid the storm might carry his words away.

“I do. Why?” She sounded curious, a little wary, as if she already knew where this was headed.

According to the old folks, Linda Franklin was Councilman Parker’s first wife—beautiful and smart. He treated her well, but she ran off with another man while she was pregnant. Her story drifted through town like a ghost, everyone with their own version but no real answers. I’d heard the name whispered at church picnics and in line at the grocery store—always with a shiver or a hush.

After a pause, Grandpa said, “A few years ago, I was drinking with Parker. He got drunk, pointed at the attic, and yelled Linda’s name. He looked furious, nothing like his usual self. Even now, it gives me chills. Do you think what’s locked in the attic could be Linda?” The words hung in the darkness, the kind of question that makes your skin crawl.

Lightning flashed, making Grandpa’s face look ghostly pale—spooky in the dark. For a second, I thought I saw someone else standing behind him, but it was just a trick of the light.

Grandma shook her head. “No way. Parker’s a softie—he won’t even kill a spider. He must’ve been drunk and talking nonsense. Besides, he always treated Linda well. How could he have hurt her?” She sounded sure, but I could tell she was trying to convince herself too.

Grandpa took a few puffs of his pipe. “I heard from Mike that Parker once suspected the baby wasn’t his. They had a huge fight. The next day, Linda disappeared. Isn’t that a little too much of a coincidence?” His words were heavy, and I could hear the sadness in his voice.

“No way. Linda was a good person. She wouldn’t do that.” Grandma’s voice was stubborn, full of small-town loyalty and the belief that you always stand by your friends.

Grandpa sighed. “When it’s light, let’s ask Parker. If this place really isn’t safe, we’ll move out.” He sounded tired, the kind of tired you get when worry gnaws at you long after midnight.

Just then, the strange groaning started up again—sharp and chilling. Grandma grumbled, “What’s up with Dad? It’s the middle of the night—doesn’t he let anyone sleep?” She threw her arm over her eyes, exasperated.

Grandpa shouted, “Dad, quit making noise and go to sleep!” His voice echoed down the hallway, but the groans only seemed to grow louder, mingling with the wail of the wind.

Suddenly, rapid footsteps thundered up the stairs. Grandma hurriedly turned on the light. Someone banged urgently at the door. Outside, my uncle’s anxious voice called, “Dad! Mom! Open up, quick!” The urgency in his voice cut through everything else, sending a fresh wave of fear through the room, like the storm itself had come inside at last. I scrambled out of bed, heart hammering. In the hall, the attic door stood wide open, and the storm howled through the house as if something had finally been let loose. The door rattled under my uncle’s fists, thunder booming overhead, and in that instant, I swore I heard footsteps above us—slow, dragging, coming closer.