Page 14 of Once Upon a Fall

Light fills the room, and it looks like we’ve stepped into a time capsule. Everything is where it’s always been in the living room. The couches are covered with sheets—something my grandma did often to protect the material. The cabinet full of her trinkets sits against the wall in the same space. The only things that look different are the pictures, with new additions of me graduating college and times I came to visit for a weekend just before my grandpa passed away.

Off to the right is the entrance to the kitchen, and down the hall to the left are the three bedrooms.

It’s dusty, and cobwebs hang from all the light fixtures, but it’s not terrible. And with a little cleaning, I could probably stay here and not have to worry about driving back and forth between here and Burlington.

The thought brings me some peace. It’ll give me a better chance of figuring out what my grandma wanted by actually being here.

“I’m so glad we caught the fire before it reached the house,” Wendell says as he looks around. He pats the top of the couch, and a little cloud of dust erupts from it.

“You were here for the fire?” I ask. I never got a lot of details about it, just that it happened, taking the orchard completely, but they were able to stop it before it finished off the barn or got to the house.

“I called the fire department,” he says, looking a little proud of himself.

“It was lightning, right?” I ask. That’s what my grandma said when she called to tell me.

That was a hard call to receive. She was crying, and there wasn’t anything I could do to help. I came to visit her as soon as I could and even offered to take her to see it, but she refused, not wanting to have that picture in her mind forever. She said she wanted to remember it like it was.

Wendell nods solemnly. “It was a dry season that year. The ground was easy kindling.”

“Well, thank you for making that call,” I say to him.

“What do you plan to do with the place?” he asks.

Good question, Wendell. Maybe I should ask him if he has any idea what my grandma wanted for this place.

“I still need to figure it out,” I say. “I’ll probably stay here for the month and weigh my options.”

“Great idea,” he says. “If you need help with any painting, I’m your guy.” He reaches into his back pocket and hands me a business card that says Castillo and Sons Painting. “Never had any sons, only three daughters. It just rolled off the tongue better, you know? Castillo and Daughters Painting is a mouthful. Plus, none of them were ever interested in painting.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the card and pocketing it. I want to point out he could’ve just dropped the “and Sons” and saved himself the rebrand, but I bite my tongue. Old habits die hard. Not everyone wants a stranger’s opinion on their business name within five minutes of meeting them.

“I’ll let you get settled in, then,” Wendell says. “If you need anything, I’m the yellow house just down the street.”

A scratching noise, followed by some scurrying overhead, has Wendell and me both looking up at the ceiling where I’m assuming the sound is coming from.

“Uh-oh,” Wendell says. “I think there might be something in the attic.” He points a stubby finger at the ceiling above.

Wendell, it seems, has a knack for stating the obvious.

We both go quiet, waiting to see if we will hear it again, me hoping maybe we heard wrong and it was coming from outside. But when the distinct sound of scurrying happens once more, it’s glaringly obvious where it’s coming from.

“Better check that out,” Wendell-the-obvious states.

I nod, remembering that the attic door is in the hallway. My grandma kept her Christmas stuff up there. One summer, since I never got to spend the actual holiday with them, we did Christmas in July instead. I helped my grandpa haul the decorations down. That was one of my favorite summers.

“I think there used to be a ladder in the barn,” I say.

Wendell follows me outside. The barn door creaks loudly when I open it, and I use brute strength to pull it through all the weeds that have grown around it. There’s not much inside but some boxes stacked in one corner, a large stack of reclaimed wood in the other, and in the center there’s an old tractor that’s mostly rusted. Up against the back wall I see a metal ladder.

“There it is,” Wendell says, pointing to it even though he saw me clock it myself.

He helps me carry it out of the barn, through all the undergrowth, and we manage to get it through the front door and down to the hallway without knocking into anything. It’s not long before I’m climbing the rungs toward the attic door in the hallway.

“Open the door slowly,” Wendell warns. “You don’t want to scare whatever it is.”

“Right,” I say, reaching the top. Using the handle, I push open the recessed door as quietly as possible.

Instantly I hear more scurrying, and I peek my head through the doorway, but the attic is pitch black and I can’t see anything.