asquirrelintheattic

The Squirrel in the Attic

After questioning me for hours about the shooting death of Ben the exterminator, the police left my hospital room scratching their heads. I'm sure they'll be back to pick through the holes in my story, but I could tell from their facial expressions that they think I'm either crazy or stupid, but not a criminal. I have no problem with that.

A dark force, one that has haunted me for most of my life, set this in motion. I was its target; Ben, unfortunately, was collateral damage. It's hard for me to admit, and I wouldn't dare say this to the detectives, but that dark force was the Boogeyman, and he came close to killing me after all these years.

I've always been afraid of the Boogeyman. He lived in the basement of my childhood home, and sometimes hid in my bedroom closet.

As a youngster, I hated winter. The short, cold days meant I couldn't play outside very long. My mother forced my younger brother Mike and I to play downstairs in our drab unfinished basement. It wasn't all bad; it was spacious and we had free run of the place, except for one room. Our father told us to stay out of the narrow room next to the furnace, because it was the lair of the monster we had grown to fear, the Boogeyman.

“Never go in there boys. He won't bother you if you stay out. And don't tell your mother about this, or she won't let you play down there anymore,” Dad warned. That seemed like a small sacrifice for personal safety, so we gladly heeded Dad's warning. For added security, we set up our plastic army men into a perimeter to guard us from the beast that lived in the storage room.

The evening play time rushed by, and soon Mom was opening the basement door and calling down, “get up here and get ready for bed, boys.” We loathed those words, because we knew that sleep begot morning, and morning begot school. I would like to say I had a love-hate relationship with school, but in all honesty, I mostly hated school, especially just before bed. Mom's last call also meant it was time to turn off the basement lights and let the Boogeyman come out from hiding.

The first boy up the stairs always turned off the lights and yelled “BOOGEYMAN” just to torment the one still in the basement. As the light imploded, the boy left down in the blackness struggled to find the stairs. A shrill scream would erupt, genuine and horrific, that echoed through the basement, causing the boy upstairs to burst out in laughter. We usually made it up the stairs together. It sucked when I was stuck in the dark, because the moment darkness descended, panic struck. No matter how hard I tried to picture the room as it was just a second before, all I saw was the Boogeyman's face in the blackness. I imagined his slimy, rotting hands reaching from beneath the stairs, grabbing at my legs as I stormed up the stairs toward the safety of our kitchen.

There was one night that I actually heard his wretched voice croak, “I'm gonna get you Johnny. I'm coming to get you.” I raced up the stairs, and threw the door open; it hit my mother, sending her headfirst into the kitchen sink. I zipped past, but she quickly tracked me down, grabbed my arm, and glared at me. She wagged her finger in my face, and scolded me for twenty minutes. I'm not sure what she said, but I remember she finished the tirade with the question: “When are you two going to grow up?”

I had no answer. I really wanted to tell her about the monster, but knew she wouldn't believe me. There was also the chance that she would forbid us from playing down there altogether, and I wasn't taking that risk. I said nothing.

It wasn't until I turned eleven and Dad moved out, that I summoned enough courage to touch the door to the Boogeyman's room. I crept toward it armed with a plastic water pistol loaded with holy water gleaned from church a Sunday past. I turned the knob, kicked the door in, and waited for the beast to rush out and attack. Nothing moved. I shuffled in; the water pistol shook in my hand. I blindly shot holy water all over the forbidden room, and didn't stop until the toy was drained.

There was no monster in the room next to the furnace. The room was my Dad's hide out, a place he kept “guy stuff” from his family. An old lounge chair and a small end table were positioned under the basement window within arm's distance of a shelf containing two large stacks of girlie magazines. On the table was evidence of Dad's other vices: an overflowing ashtray, a pack of Pall Malls, a few empty beer cans, and a half emptied bottle of Johnny Walker Red. It would have been easy to dismiss the Boogeyman as a fable meant to keep a young boy from finding his father's pornography, but I knew otherwise. It lived and breathed, just not in the room next to the furnace.

I kept the contents of the room to myself, for myself. I probably ‘read' every magazine in that room a hundred times. I even lit up a cigarette once, but nearly coughed myself into a coma. And by the time I turned fifteen, the scotch bottle was empty. That happened a lot through the years.

As I grew older, the Boogeyman changed, becoming subtle and complex. He was no longer the slimy green monster that hid in the basement. Rather, he became the demon known as addiction. And lately, he's haunted me as a squirrel.

It turned up in the attic over my garage a week ago. I spotted his gray tail waving behind a freshly chewed hole in the attic vent. I pictured a family of them roaming around inside my ceiling, chewing my sheetrock, and making more squirrels. I had to act quickly.

I climbed the folding attic ladder from the garage into the attic, and set a humane trap near the hole in the vent. That night, as I cleaned up after dinner, I heard the trap shut. It was a slight sound, but it caused my dog Amber to emit a lazy bark. A moment later, something crashed outside the garage. Raccoons got into the recycling bins again, I figured. I ignored it, and went to bed confident my squirrel problem was over.

I trudged outside the next morning expecting to clean up after marauding raccoons. The recycling bins remained upright, but the trap from the attic was on the ground mangled, surrounded by shards of the plastic attic vent. One side of the trap was blown out, like a rocket blasted through the wire bars on its way to orbit. Strangely, there was no fur or blood anywhere.

I went back up the ladder to jury-rig the hole in the side of my house. I covered the hole quickly, but as I turned, I noticed a large nest made of shredded paper, hay, and baling twine in the shadowed corner near the eave. I crawled over and held my breath as I gave the nest a poke with the claw end of my hammer. It was empty. I exhaled.

The nest was an engineering marvel built from recycled materials. The yellowed newspaper and magazines strips dated back to my childhood. I picked through the bigger bits of paper with nostalgic curiosity. The first piece I plucked from the nest was of a woman's bare midsection, tight and toned; the second piece revealed her round, tanned breasts. I dug through the nest until I found her missing head. Her face was perfection; her long blonde hair was sunlit magic, falling softly past smooth bronzed shoulders. She was Miss January 1978, and she was staring raptly into my eyes, just like she did when I first discovered her in my father's secret room thirty years ago.

There were other pieces of girlie magazines entwined in the nest. All were torn from different publications, but were from the same era. I knew these women; I spent a good deal of time in the secret room getting to know them intimately after Dad left. I hadn't seen them since we sold off his pile of magazines in a garage sale about twenty years ago. It seemed like every strip pulled from the nest was from that pile hidden in our basement. A chill buzzed through me that ended my pubescent daydream.

I gathered the cocoon of paper and twine, and dragged it toward the ladder. An angry shriek broke the silence. A squirrel bounded toward me; it lunged at my face. I ducked my head, and swung my arm wildly. The airborne rodent crashed to the floor, rolled upright, and sunk its teeth into my watch band. It grunted and twisted like a tiny wolf tearing into its prey.

I reacted. The hammer slammed down on its head, flattening its skull, splattering blood onto the floor boards in a small semi-circle. The hammer rose and crashed again and again, until the squirrel stopped twitching.

I was stunned, and maybe even a bit frightened by the attack. I saw something in its eyes I couldn't identify. At first, I thought it was pure hatred, but it seemed closer to the kamikaze-like determination you see in a cult member's eyes; it unsettled me.

I grabbed the limp carcass by the tail, and backed down the attic ladder into the garage. I dropped the body into an empty sneaker box, taped it shut, and tossed the cardboard coffin into the garbage can.

I said, “Rest in peace,” and marched into the house like a conquering hero.

I had just finished washing the squirrel's blood from my hands, when I heard something thrashing about in the garage. I threw open the door. The metal garbage can rattled on it base; claws scratched desperately inside. The lid then slid off, and the mangled squirrel jumped out and onto the hood of my Jeep.

Its bloody head was crushed flat on one side, and its lower jaw hung open, baring shattered teeth. Jagged shards of bone pushed through its palette and out through the bridge of its nose. One of its eyes faced the ceiling; the other drooped to the side at a right angle. I can't say that it was staring at me, but there was no mistaking its posture; it stood in defiance.

Its sides drew in and out as it labored to breath. Each shallow breathe sounded like an asthmatic child wheezing and came in a pattern as if words were on the tip of its shredded tongue struggling to form. Only garbled grunts fell from its gaping maw.

The poor animal was suffering and deserved a quick end. The shovel across the garage looked like it would do the job nicely. I went to grab it, but the squirrel jumped off the hood and limped out of the garage. It staggered across the lawn toward the woods.

Amber was going berserk inside the house. The scent of blood sent her into a fevered frenzy. I opened the door; she exploded from the house at a full gallop, and was fast on the squirrel's trail. I followed behind laughing and shouting, “Get it girl, get that bastard.”

The scene screamed of pure blood lust. When I turned the corner of the house, Amber was sniffing around the tree line erratically; the scent trail went cold. It didn't seem possible that a bleeding rodent could disappear that quickly, but Amber was stumped. The hunt was over.

I turned in early that night, but sleep didn't come easily. As I lay processing the day's events, I heard the faint sound of claws scurrying in the attic. The tiny foot steps wound through the ceiling, drawing closer to my bedroom, until they were above me, digging at the sheetrock over my bed.

I started to feel an evil presence getting near. It had been many years since I last felt that kind of dread. The shadows began to dance in the dark corners. My pulse quickened, pounding a frantic rhythm in my chest. I was certain that if I looked into the blackness, I would see the Boogeyman's face grinning back at me. White noise buzzed in my head like a swarm of winged insects, growing louder with each heartbeat.

I pulled the covers over my head like I did when I was eight. I held my breath and tried not to move. The buzzing faded, but was replaced by raspy breathing. It filled the room; it surrounded me.

“Get it girl, get that bastard,” a loathsome voice mocked.

I bolted straight up in bed, and then dove across the room to turn on the light. The creature in the ceiling scuttled away, back to some distant part of the attic.

After a moment of heated self debate, I called the first pest control service listed in the phone book and left an anxious message. I then turned on the television. The lights and television remained on the rest of the night. For all I know, they still are.

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Ben of Ben's Wildlife Control arrived to remove the squirrel from my attic. He was a large, sweaty man who appeared to be a donut away from a heart attack. Ben was also blunt and to the point - a man of few words. I usually appreciate directness in people, but after what had transpired, I craved human interaction.

I told Ben about the destroyed trap, that I crushed the squirrel's head in self defense and it somehow didn't die, that its scent track disappeared mysteriously, and that it was now roaming inside my walls.

As I spoke, Ben nodded his head in an understanding manner. His facial expressions seemed caring and genuine, as if he understood my angst. When I finished my story, Ben looked at me and said with a crooked smirk, “Boy, that sounds like one evil squirrel you got there sir. You can relax and leave this to me.”

He rumbled across my lawn to his van to get his equipment, and I skulked back into my house embarrassed, feeling a bit emasculated.

I let Ben do his job undisturbed. I made myself a sandwich and ate it over the sink, staring vacantly out the window at the woods past my back yard. I heard Ben's muffled voice rise and fall as he clunked around the attic, but was unable to decipher any words. Curiosity drew me to the door and then into the garage. The silence lasted for a moment, but broke when he exclaimed, “Wow that is one big friggin' nest.”

I overheard Ben talking to an associate on his push to talk cell phone. He laughed as he retold my story (he referred to me as the “crazy guy” several times), and said that he'd be done with the squirrel problem shortly. His confidence was reassuring. I turned to go back into the house; the lights flickered just as Ben let out a perfectly synchronized scream.

I rushed up the ladder and found Ben convulsing next to the nest. I grabbed his thick legs and pulled his limp body toward the ladder. It was a struggle, but I was able to get Ben down from the attic. He twitched and shivered on the garage floor while I called the police.

His head began to move slowly from side to side, like he was waking from a dream. His eyes shot open wide; they banged manically back and forth as he tried to process his thoughts.

“Ben, what the hell happened?”

He struggled to sit up. He coughed a few harsh hacks, and replied, “I reached for the nest, and hit an exposed wire. I couldn't let go. I thought I was going to die.” He paused to catch his breathe. “I saw a messed up squirrel sitting there watching me fry. I thought I heard it say something.”

“What?”

“I think it said, ‘stay outta my way, fat boy'”

His face flushed white, and he went limp causing his head to crash on the cement floor with a sickening thud. His pleading eyes stared up at me, but he couldn't speak.

I said nothing to Ben. I suppose I could have said something comforting as he lay in shock on a strange garage floor. Instead, I let my thoughts careen out of control. It's the Boogeyman again. He's come for me. Sorry you grabbed the exposed wire Benny boy, ‘cause that was meant for me. So, what's next? Maybe he'll throw a toaster into the shower, or maybe the gas line to the stove will blow me to bits, or maybe-

The ambulance's wailing siren shook me from my panic attack. The EMT's rushed up the driveway, loaded Ben onto a gurney, and whisked him away.

The afternoon proved to be uneventful, but as the hours passed, the sounds of the country became unnerving. Shrieking birds sounded like children screaming in horror. The coyote's lonely howls traveled down from the ridge on Hunger Mountain. The cicadas' constant whir pulsed in my head. I found a bottle of sleeping pills, threw two into a glass of Jack Daniels, and chugged. The noises stopped.

I awoke near dawn, shaken from sleep by a series of nightmares, the last, the most terrifying. In that dream, my brother and I were playing with Tonka trucks in the basement near the forbidden room. The small of my back pressed against the door, causing it to rattle on its hinges. The noise raised Mike's eyebrows. I stood, turned, and teased him that I was going to open the door of the Boogeyman's room. He begged me not to go in, but I had already twisted the knob. The door swung open.

My father was sitting in the chair under the window, smoking a cigarette, holding a can of beer in his hand. He sneered at me, and said, “I told you to stay out of here Johnny. This is his room.”

The light went out in the small room. I wanted to run, but couldn't. Dad's expression changed; the sneer became an angry scowl. His eyes turn blacker than the surrounding darkness, and lumps rose on his face and arms that roiled beneath the surface. His skin heaved violently, and tore along his forehead. Blood streamed from his temples, and snaked down his cheeks. The lumps on his forearm erupted, sending segmented worms squirming out of his faded tattoos.

The basement lights flashed several times before they went black. I screamed, “Mike, help me,” but he was already up the stairs in the safety of our kitchen.

My father began to laugh, but his voice changed to a guttural growl. He grabbed me by the wrist with a decaying hand, and didn't let go. He began to grunt fractured words, syllable by syllable, in a putrid voice. It was the voice of the dead; it was the voice of the Boogeyman.

“Allu kot Lilitu shon Kurnugia”, he chanted over and over, his body shuddering with each word. When the ancient words stopped, Dad let out a sinister laugh, and then croaked, “I'm coming to get you Johnny. I'm gonna get you and that dog of yours.”

When I awoke, I sat for a long while telling myself that it was just a dream. The deep scratches on my wrist told a different story.

I shuffled to the window, peeked through the shades, but saw nothing peering in or lurking around. The sun was just a tranquil slice of orange sitting on the horizon. I rummaged through the pile of clothes on the floor until I found a pair of shorts. They were dirty. I didn't care; I was not opening the closet door.

Amber had already awakened and had gone downstairs for her morning drink of water. She sat at the back door whining to be let out. I slid the door open; she scrambled out, raced across the yard and into the woods. I screamed her name, commanded her to “come”, but she couldn't hear me above her baying.

I ran after her, but just as I entered the woods, she released a shrill yelp. My heart leapt into my throat, but I continued down the tight trail. The path became blurred by low-hanging limbs, slowing the chase to a crawl. I ducked under a thick branch, tripped on a leaf covered log, and fell short of a freshly dug hole.

The large hole looked and smelled like an open grave. Its walls were lined with dozens of dagger-like stakes that angled toward the murky bottom. Cool air crept from it depths and washed over me, causing the hair on my neck to stand on end.

I leaned over the edge, and peered through the shadows. Amber was at the bottom, on her side, pinned down by a tangle of stakes. She looked up at me, whimpered, and wagged her tail. She tried to wriggle herself free, but the trap held her tight. With every movement, the stakes worked deeper into her flesh. I tried to calm her, firmly telling her to “stay”, but she wanted to get to me.

I grabbed a stake, and gave it an adrenalin fueled jerk, but it didn't budge. I dug frantically at the earthen wall, until the stake came free, then another, and then another. I slid into the hole, between the tangled array of spikes, and continued digging.

Amber tried to get to her feet, but as she gathered her legs beneath her, she embedded a stake into her ribcage. Her eyes grew wide. She thrashed about in agony, pushing a razor sharp stake through her neck. A torrent of blood shot from the wound; her body shuddered. After one last frightened squeal, she released a gasp of air and fell limp.

The squirrel sat watching from the edge of the pit. It squawked its approval, turned, and began kicking dirt on me. When I reached for a stake to throw, the squirrel scampered off.

I lifted Amber out and cradled her in my lap. I sat on the deadfall's edge for a long while, sobbing and rocking, stroking her face, and rubbing behind her ears. Between sobs, I said goodbye.

I carried her back to the house and covered her with a tarp. A gentle breeze lifted it from her head, exposing her dark, glassy eyes. They stared up at me as if asking why I let this happen. “I'm so sorry girl,” I whispered.

A gravelly voice called out from the woods, “you're next Johnny boy. I'm coming to get you.”

I ran into the house, grabbed my shotgun, and rushed the tree line searching for the squirrel, boogeyman, or whatever form it may have taken. I ran into the woods toward the open pit, and then doubled back into the garage and kicked over the garbage can from which the squirrel had arisen. As I stepped out of the garage and into the morning light, I placed the gun on the ground, collapsed against the back of my Jeep and began to weep.

I buried Amber that afternoon near a maple tree on the small hill on my property. Each night, just after dinner, Amber and I would make the short trek to the hill to watch the twilight wane. I drank a beer, and she gnawed a bone. I thought this the perfect place to bury my dear lost friend. I returned to the house at dusk, tired and burning with hate for my tormenter.

He was coming for me. If I didn't fight, or if I ran, I would die. I tried to anticipate its next move. I placed my car keys and cell phone in my pocket in case of an emergency. A flashlight and my shotgun never left my sight.

I waited. The evening dragged. Each misplaced sound caused my heart to jump and my hand to reach for the gun. Then something happened. While I had my head buried in my refrigerator, something crashed against the side of the garage.

I grabbed the shotgun, rushed through the garage to the side of the house. The motion light didn't go on. My pupils adjusted slowly to the low light. I saw the outline of something large crouching in the darkness. Next to it was the silhouette of the squirrel.

The dark figure rose from the ground emitting a deep throated growl. I pointed the gun and squeezed the trigger twice, emptying both barrels into the target. Each flash illuminated the side of the house for a split second, but I couldn't see what I shot.

I kept the gun pointing at the downed creature that lay ten feet away. It drew in a loud breathe, and expelled a guttural moan that caused the hair on my arms to bristle. I inched closer; the motion light flashed on, and as the darkness retreated, it became clear that the shadow figure was Ben the exterminator, and he was dying.

I rushed over and knelt beside Ben to assess his condition. The blast had torn through Ben's neck and shoulder, leaving a shredded wound that looked like a shark bite. His glazed eyes rolled back, sinking deep into their sockets. There was blood everywhere. His shirt was drenched in it, as was the garbage can next to him. But what I remember most was the way it was spattered against the side of the white shingled garage like a bad abstract painting. A scream started but was choked back by a rush of sickness.

“Why'd you shoot me?” Ben whispered. “You called, wanted me to come over to set a trap. My partner dropped me off so I could pick up my van,”

I began to tell him that I didn't call him, but stopped. Why not tell him it was the boogeyman that called. Or: Hey Ben, you know that squirrel that tried to kill you the other day? Well, looks I finished the job for him.

I grabbed him under each arm and dragged him into the garage, leaving a crazy swath of blood in our wake. I closed the garage door and covered Ben with an old moving blanket before reassessing his wounds. Each heart beat pushed blood from his neck, and each breath produced a wet sucking sound from under his shirt. I tried to slow the bleeding, but I couldn't treat his horrendous wounds. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

The attic stairs dropped from the ceiling with a thundering crash. I fell back against the Jeep. The phone fell onto my foot, closed and bounced out of sight.

A slimy laugh came from the attic that grew louder as it neared the stairs. The voice boomed down, “Two birds, one stone. So nice, so very nice,” as it began its descent into the garage.

I jumped into the Jeep just as the lights went out in the garage. My hands fumbled through my pockets until they found the keys. The Jeep started instantly, but the garage door wouldn't open. The monster's laugh grew louder as it drew nearer. The monster was now next to Ben, only a few feet from me.

Its eyes drew near Ben's head, casting a red glow on Ben's face. It breathed in deep, drawing the air from Ben's lungs into its shark toothed mouth. Tiny waves of blue and white light danced from Ben's chest, only to be sucked hungrily into the monster.

“I told you to stay outta my way, fat boy”, the Boogeyman said, poking Ben's belly with a jagged finger. The beast let out a satisfied laugh. It then turned and lunged at the Jeep.

Its talon-like hands reached in and grabbed for my throat.

I slammed the Jeep into reverse and punched the gas pedal. Tires squealed as it exploded through the garage door. It ricocheted down the driveway and slammed into Ben's work van. The jarring crash snapped my neck back but did little damage to the Jeep. I sped away without purpose or direction.

I took a quick look into the rear-view mirror. I saw blackness. I turned on the interior lights and checked the back seat. It was empty. As it screeched around another the next corner, its headlights flashed on an animal in the middle of the road, some fifty feet away.

Amber stood dead center, calmly wagging her tail as my jeep zeroed in on her. I turned the wheel hard to the right, missing her by inches. The jeep launched off the road, entered a drainage ditch and rolled.

My face slammed the dashboard, spitting blood onto the shattered windshield. The driver's compartment twisted, bending sheet metal into bizarre angles that snapped my legs like saplings in an ice storm. Stagnant ditch water seeped into the Jeep muting the yellow dome lights to a murky brown.

As I struggled to free myself, my body slipped from the seatbelt and splashed onto the inside of the roof. Cool, dirty water seeped into my ears. Consciousness waned, but before all went black, I saw the squirrel at the shattered driver's window. Its hammer smashed head peered in and focused its dead eyes hatefully into mine. He lingered a moment, squawked, swished his tail twice, and was gone.

The police discovered Ben's body in my garage. A neighbor called to report hearing gunshots, and as the police were on the way to my house, they spotted my upside down Jeep. They found me inside, motionless, in water deep enough to drown me. I was told I was lucky they found me when they did.

They say they believed me when I told them that I shot Ben accidently. I told them I panicked and had to leave in a hurry to get to a phone to call help. I couldn't share everything with them. How do you tell someone that the Boogeyman, disguised as a squirrel, killed Ben and my dog while trying to kill me, or that my once dead dog had come back to life? You don't.

I have recounted as much as I can remember right now. The pain is coming on strong again. I pressed the pain medication button a few desperate times, so I think I'll write later. Getting really stupid now. All alone in this big old room with two broken legs that hurt, and so does my back. My face is broken up pretty good. Damn, it hurts to smile. I think a tooth just fell out. I pushed the button again. Feeling good. Feeling lucky.

I had thought all was well. The attending doctor said that I'd be home in a week and back on my feet in a few months. And, I figured, I'd won my duel with the Boogeyman.

Well, I just met Jillian, the overnight nurse. She came by to check in on me and introduce herself. She is a pretty redheaded woman with a voice so soothing that I thought she was an angel. She told me to push the button next to the bed if I needed anything. I nodded, and picked up this pad and began to write.

She went to the foot of the bed, grabbed my chart and shook her head in disapproval. I caught her gaze briefly; my body shuddered in revulsion. She left the room nonchalantly, and disappeared down the hallway.

I am trembling as I write this. I hope I am wrong, but in that instant I caught her gaze, I saw him in her eyes.

I can feel him again. The boogeyman is getting closer. He was a squirrel and is now my night nurse. She works the graveyard shift- how ironic.

Young nurse Jillian came into my half darkened room, and smiled pretty as she stuck a needle into my catheter. “Just to ease the pain honey,” she whispered. And as the last word fell sweetly from her ruby lips, her face began to change.

I turned away, toward the window, but there on the window sill sat the rotting squirrel. It leered at me for a moment, squawked a few times, swished his tail twice, and was gone.

Nurse Jillian's cold hands turned my face back toward her. I watched her soft porcelain features morph into his horrific face. Her warm brown eyes began to glow red like the flames of hell. Her white smile turned black, menacing and vile. Her mouth opened and the words, “Got you Johnny. I told you to stay out of my room,” spewed out.

She left whistling a happy tune.

I haven't much time. Can't speak, light's fading. Can't hold this pen any