A bit of serial fiction in 100 word installments. Here are the other parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. nine and ten.
Miss Dietrich handed over a modern key, shiny and new, much to Adam’s surprise. He expected an old brass skeleton key. She told him to bring it back when he was done, as she couldn’t climb the stairs to the attic —which was really a third floor, not just a crawl space beneath the eaves.
Adam climbed slowly, his nerves unexplainably on edge. Perhaps it was the silent house, save for the creaking floorboards beneath his feet. When finally, he reached the door at the top of the staircase, he paused to listen. And he swore he heard someone crying.
A bit of serial fiction in 100 word installments. Here are the other parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. and nine.
“Come now, Miss Dietrich, you know better than that,” Adam said, giving her hand a pat. “There has to be a rational explanation.”
The older woman snapped back to attention, clearing her throat. “Yes, of course, you’re right.”
“Ma’am, would it be possible to check in the attic?”
“But why? There’s nothing up there but the detritus of a life nearly over,” she said wistfully.
Adam couldn’t come up with a reasonable excuse. It was merely a feeling he had. “It seems like that’s where the music is coming from.”
She sighed. “Very well. Let me get you the key.”
A bit of serial fiction in 100 word installments. Here are the other parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight.
Miss Dietrich dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “It was so long ago…”
Adam asked, “Why do roses remind you of Evangeline?”
She sniffed. “I stayed with an aunt when I began to show… Then I had Evangeline with me for a few months before we got the news about Eddie. Anyway, I used to put a little drop of rose water in the baby’s bath…” She sighed. “Such a lovely scent.”
“And the song I keep hearing?”
“‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart.’ I used to sing her to sleep.” She got a faraway look. “Maybe she’s come home.”