is where she died. The filthy floor is covered with broken lampshades, old clothing, books and newspapers. We take a few steps into the den and scan it with our lights. A television from the 1960s with a cracked screen. Peeling wallpaper. Layers of dust and crud and spiderwebs spun everywhere.
As we shine our lights up the narrow staircase and prepare to go up, a heavy rain hits the tin roof and the noise is deafening. The wind kicks up and rattles the walls.
I take three steps up, Frankie is on my heels, and suddenly the front door slams again. We are enclosed, with whatever spirits Vida left behind. I pause but only for a second. I’m the leader of this expedition, the brave one, and I cannot show fear though my unsettled bowels are turning flips and my heart is about to explode.
How much fun will I have recounting this episode to Vicki and Mazy?
Add this to the list of all the things they didn’t mention in law school.
We make it to the top of the stairway and the heat hits like a sauna, a hot sticky fog we could probably see if things weren’t so dark. The rain and wind are pounding the roof and windows and making a tremendous racket. We step into the bedroom on the right, a small space no more than twelve feet square, with a mattress, a broken chair, and a rug in tatters. We light the ceiling, looking for a sign of a door or entry point to the attic, but see nothing. It’s all pine, once painted white but peeling badly. In a corner, something moves and knocks over a jar. I shine it with my light and say, “Back off. It’s a snake!” A long, thick black one, probably not poisonous but at the moment who cares? It’s not coiled but slinking around, not headed our way, probably just confused by the interruption.
I don’t mess with snakes but nor am I deathly afraid of them. Frankie, however, is, and he pulls out the Glock.
“Don’t shoot,” I say above the din. We freeze and keep the snake in our beams for a long time as our shirts begin to cling to our backs and we breathe even heavier. Slowly, it slithers under the rug and we can’t see it anymore.
The rain slackens and we collect ourselves. “How do you feel about spiders?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Shut your mouth!”
“Be careful, because they are everywhere.”
As we backtrack out of the room, still scanning the floor for the snake or others, a ferocious clap of lightning hits nearby, and in that instant I know that if I don’t die at the hands of an evil spirit or venomous animal, I’m certain to die of cardiac arrest. Sweat drips from my eyebrows. Our shirts are completely soaked. In the other bedroom, there is a small cot with what looks like an old green army blanket bunched on it. No other furniture or furnishings. Wallpaper sags from the walls. I glance out the window, and through the sheets of rain I can barely make out the image of Riley and Wendell sitting in the truck, riding out the storm, watching the house as wipers sweep the windshield, no doubt with the doors locked to protect them from spirits.
We kick junk out of the way to check for snakes, then turn our attention to the ceiling. Again, there is no sign of an opening to an attic above. I suppose it’s possible that Kenny Taft hid his boxes up there and sealed them off for good, or at least until he one day returned for them. How the hell am I supposed to know what he did?
Frankie notices a ceramic knob to a smaller door, probably a closet. He points at it, calling it to my attention, but obviously prefers that I open it. I grab it, jiggle it, yank it hard, and as it flies open I am suddenly face-to-face with a human skeleton. Frankie feels faint and falls to one knee. I step away and begin vomiting, finally.
A squall line batters the house even harder, and for a long time we listen to the sounds of the storm. I do feel somewhat better after purging my system of spring rolls, beer, wine, brandy, and everything else. Frankie pulls himself together and we slowly return our lights to the closet. The skeleton is hanging from a plastic cord of some sort, and its