The staircase had fourteen steps. On the seventh, there were two footprints.
Not footprints, Alan thought. The opposite of footprints. I’ve seen something like that before.
Alan knelt down to touch the carpet runner. In the center of the step he saw the charcoal grey outline of two feet scorched into the fibers. He touched his middle finger to one. He rubbed the ash between this finger and thumb. Alan scraped at one of the outlines with his fingernail. He found clean carpet underneath.
“I think this will come up with some carpet cleaner,” Alan said.
“Wait, Alan, this is physical evidence of what you said you saw on the stairs. It was no electrical flash—no static discharge. Right? You can’t ignore this.”
“I was probably standing there when the flash happened,” Alan said.
“You weren’t. I saw you. You were several steps down from there,” Bob said. “Besides, these marks aren’t even the same size as your shoes. They’re much smaller. Come here, try to put your foot in one.”
“I’m just going to get the carpet cleaner,” Alan said. “I want to get this cleaned up before it gets tracked up and down the stairs.” He descended and headed down the hall for the closet. “You know,” he called over his shoulder, “those probably aren’t footprints at all. It could just be some weird ash from the flash. I’m lucky the whole house didn’t burn down.”
When Alan returned with his spray bottle, Bob was taking pictures with his phone. Alan waited for Bob to finish and then sprayed the carpet. The ash came up with some blotting.
“There,” Alan said. “Problem solved. Thanks again for your help today.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Bob said. “I should get back. I’ve got to finish some rework.”
“When does the inspector come back?”
“He said Friday or Monday.”
“That’s convenient,” Alan said.
“Yeah, isn’t it? I think they’re used to dealing with shut-ins. They expect that they can roll in any time and you’ll be there,” Bob said.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow,” Alan said. “I want to see how it’s coming.”
Bob nodded. He gave a wave as he headed out.
Alan dabbed at the carpet with some fresh paper towels and then backed away to inspect his work. The carpet was still wet. It was an old carpet anyway, and the sun only hit it at certain times of day. Chances were, nobody would notice a slight stain. He put away the cleaning supplies and then climbed back to the attic.
The room felt crisp and clean. The breeze still swept through the space from the gaping hole where the window used to be, and it brought the dry October air. Alan and Liz had lived in Virginia for long enough that Alan had forgotten that air could feel like this. Northern Virginia was a swamp, and it was always sticky with heavy air. Up here, you could take a deep breath and fill your lungs with cool luxury. Alan walked to the open hole and looked down at the driveway. There was still a matted spot on the lawn where the panels had been stacked. At least he was done with the ladder—he could put that away.
Alan turned and regarded his project.
He had a pile of strapping to install—those boards would give him a nailing substrate perfectly aligned with the panels. The panels were standing on edge, leaning against the rafters. Bob had sighted the undersides of the rafters and declared that no shimming would be required, which would save a lot of time.
“Okay,” Alan said. “I guess everything’s ready.”
He was excited to finish this step. Once he was done with the panels, he would start working on his photographs. No more procrastination. A fresh gust came through the window. Alan turned.
I suppose I really should button up this window again. There’s no sense in letting in birds or bats or whatever. Should I toss that chair down on the lawn before reinstall the window? No—I’ll want some place to sit while I deliberate over photos.
Alan glanced back at the chair. It was uncomfortable, but you didn’t want a comfy place to sit while you deliberated.
Comfort makes the mind wander, he thought. I guess I have to unscrew the chair from the floor eventually.
Alan smiled. He picked up the upper sash and fed the ropes over the pulleys. He tapped in a nail inside the sash-weight cavity. He tied the rope to the nail. Once he filled in the cavity with insulation, the window would be fixed in its position. He wanted a tight seal more than he wanted a working window—at least for the winter. Maybe next summer he would figure out a better arrangement. Alan worked quickly. He locked the sashes in place, stuffed the cavity until the wind stopped whistling through the gaps, and then began replacing the molding. He zoned out while he worked, barely noticing the wrenching sounds of screws pulling from wood. Alan reused the same nails—ancient spikes of metal with square heads. He wondered who had taken the time to make each nail by hand. When he aligned everything the way it had been, the nails drove easily into their old holes.
Each nail required only one solid hit to push it back into place.
BANG.
BANG.
Alan picked up a few of his finish nails to tighten up the boards.
BANG.
BANG.
He reassembled the window in reverse of the order in which he’d taken it apart.
BANG.
BANG.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
Alan set his hammer down. He turned away from the window slowly.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
He didn’t see anything. The chair was gone. He walked forward slowly. His head stayed pointed forward, but his eyes darted around, expecting a surprise. He still heard the noise.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
The sound was coming from the other side of the attic—the far window. Alan angled to the side to see around the standing sheets of paneling.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
The chair was back at its spot near the window. It still had Alan’s screws poking out from the bottom of the rockers. Those screws made the bumping sounds, and made the chair rock unevenly. Alan watched as it bump-thumped its way through two more full rocks. It came to a stop. He looked back at the center of the room, where the chair should be, and then down at it again. The chair remained still. In his head, the sound it made reverberated.
Alan picked up the chair by the arms and lifted it over the panels. He set it back down in the center of the attic. The screws bit into the floor. Alan lifted the chair again and slammed it down again and again until the screws aligned with the holes where it had once been fastened. One of the arms creaked as the wood accepted the abuse. Alan glared down at the window he had just reinstalled. He looked at the chair. Anger boiled up from his guts. He felt it making a fiery trail up his spine and into the back of his head. Alan made no effort to stop his rage. It filled his head with white heat.
Alan raised his foot, held it in the air for a second, and then thundered it down on the front edge of the seat. The old wood cracked. Alan repeated with another blow. This one broke the front of the seat in half and the arms of the chair were pulled inward, like the chair was trying to protect its vitals. Alan lifted the chair by its arms and slammed it down on its side. He kicked and beat at the wood, smashing the chair into pieces held together by the old caning of the back.
The window overlooking the dooryard wouldn’t open anymore—Alan had sealed it. He carried the remnants of the chair to the front window, opened the sash, and then threw the sticks to the front yard below. He slammed the window shut.