I made it through the rest of the house.The three-story building was generous enough that there were amplebedrooms, a massive master bedroom, several bathrooms, a hugelibrary, and quite a few storerooms.
It was around mid-morning when I found theattic. I can't really tell you why I found it. Though Iacademically understood that all old large Victorian buildings likethis had attics because of their steepled roofs, that wasn't thereason I found it. The cat was.
I was standing on the top floor mullingover some trinkets artfully arranged on a credenza when the cat came trotting past. Thoughit had kept a close watch on me the whole day, as though I was acriminal intent on looting the place, when I'd stopped under theattic, it had started meowing like I’d stepped on its tail. It onlystopped meowing after my head jerked back and I saw the opening tothe attic. It was one of those built-in ladder ones that you couldpull down with a hook. It wasn't properly closed and was open justa bit. There must've been a light on inthe attic or something, because a faint glow was filtering out through thegap.
“And what have we here?” I muttered under my breath as I searchedaround for a pole to pull the stairs down with. I found it in oneof the spare bedrooms propped against the wall.
The cat now watched me quietly andintently. Seriously intently. Either the little guy thought I was food, or he wanted me tofind out whatever the heck was up there.
“Don't go down that road again,”I admonished myself with ahuff. “The cat is just hungry.”
I don't know why, but a knot of nerves formed in my gut as Imuscled the hook up to the attic stairs, inserted the pole into thehook and pulled them down.
A loud grating creak echoed through thehallway.
I swear the cat was looking at mewith an approving glintin its eye. Hey, maybe this was all a setup, and it planned onlocking me up in the attic so it could get revenge for mebody-slamming it last night.
Those knots continued to twist around mygut as the stairs clunked to the floor.
“Pull yourself together,”I admonished myself as I tookto the stairs lightly.
My mom used to tell me that if you wereattuned to the world, you could feel things. Sense histories whenever you entered a new building or traveledto a new city. The strongest energies of all either corresponded togreat or terrible things. The more monumental some incident, themore energy surrounded it.
So why the hell did I suddenly get thefeeling that this attic would be the most important room I wouldever enter in my entire life?
“You're making it up,” I said firmly as I reached the top of thestairs.
… The attic was empty. Or mostly empty. Itwasn't full of treasure,wasn't full of heirlooms or old suitcases or stacks of old books.It had a nice enough looking rug, a pretty comfortable leatherchair, and an antique table with a wobbly leg.
There was a book on the table. Out ofeverything in the room, it was the book that caught my attention.It riveted me to the spot as if it had suddenly locked two handsaround my cheeks and snapped me into place.
I heard a creak on the stairs and shunted around, heartpounding in my chest as I expected everything from murderers todemons. What I got was the cat. Of course, itwas the cat. It rested on the final step and stared at me, itsgleaming intelligent eyes locked on mine.
“Man, it's just you. You almost gave me aheart attack,” Imuttered, then I admonished myself quickly as I realized that’sexactly what old Joan had died of.
Never joke about the dead.
I turned around, attention settling backon the book. I couldn't help myself. I was compelled by something –some sense that welled up in my gut, spread through myheart, and reachedtowards the book—
I… couldn’t describe it. It was as if thebook called to some part of me that had never been touched before.Some unreachable corner buried deep within my soul.
My heartbeat didn’t quicken, but somehowit became harder, like a drum being pounded with ever-growingforce.
Suddenly, I remembered something Joan hadsaid to me once. Maybe it had been at my granddad’s funeral, ormaybe I’d just heard it from my mother.
The point was – the saying echoed through mymind with the force of a bellowing blast.
“Follow the path laid out byyour heart. Weave together the strands of emotion that grow fromyour soul and follow them to your greatest destiny.”
You see, according to Joan, each of us has a different set ofpossible destinies, ranging from good to bad. We get to choosewhere our life will end up.
You want to be the best possible you? Easy.You don’t have to think. Don’t have to strive. Just follow yourheart.
My problem with that? Yeah, your heartbeats blood. It doesn’t weave together strands of your destiny. Itkind of underpins your circulatory system, so you don’t, you know,die.
Plus, living is about surviving. It’s aboutmaking sacrifices. Trading off the good against the bad and gettingsomething in between.
So I fought. Aiya, did I fight that growing compulsion that pulled me towardsthe book, that told me wrapped up in the fiber of each page was mydestiny.
I fought so hard, in fact, I swore I heardsomething cracking. Like a muscle under strain snapping, or somemetal chain clanking.
Suddenly, someone knocked on the frontdoor.
Don’t ask me how I heard it, considering Iwas way up in the attic, but I did.
I heard it because I felt every knock onthe door. Felt it as if somebody had balled their hand into a fist and drummed it against the center of myforehead.
It was so unexpected that Ilet out a ridiculouslyloud yelp.
Whoever was knocking paused.“Everything okay in there?” Aloud, husky male voice called out.
A jolt of something shot up my spine. Itwas almost as if I’d swallowed an explosion. It fired across myback, charged up my arms, powered over mylegs, and sank into my heart.
My reaction was so powerful, I crammed ahand over my pounding heart.
… All the
