I read this last night to a local Cub Scout troop, and the kids absolutely LOVED the story...  If you are looking for somethign a little scary, but safe, that you can read to your young ones on this spookiest of nights...here's my gift to you.  A quick note...I probably won't post as much fiction here in the future as I have - though I will on occasion.  I just felt it was a good way to introduce myself to a new net "home."  Enjoy.  This was originally published in the anthology Stories That Won't Make Your Parents Hurl

 

            Joey climbed the creaky old steps slowly.  He wasn’t supposed to go the attic by himself, but Grandpa had left the door open, and he wanted to look around.  There was a lot of neat stuff there -- old stuff.  There were boxes and boxes of clothes, books, statues and hats, empty suitcases and old shoes.  In the corner there was even a really old soda machine that Grandpa said had once stood in front of the general store downtown, before the mall had come to town.

            Grandma said it was a bunch of old junk, but Joey knew better.  Grandma also said she was going to go through it one day and throw it all out -- every bit.  Joey knew she would never do that, either.   She might complain, but she  always had a story to tell about anything he found up there.  The attic was like grandma’s scrap book, only better, because the stuff was right there for you to see, to touch, and imagine with.

            This was a special chance, though.  Grandma was out shopping, and Grandpa had laid back in his old chair to take a nap, so no one would see Joey slipping up the stairs.  He was careful to be very quiet and not wake up Grandpa.  He wouldn’t be mad, but he’d be grumpy, and besides, he might not let Joey play with the stuff in the attic if he caught him sneaking in.

            As he climbed, the familiar scents of the musty attic tickled his nose.  It smelled a little bit like Grandpa’s old jacket, a little bit like the blankets from Grandma’s cedar chest, and a lot like dust.  Joey poked his head in the door to look around, he saw that the sunlight was pouring in the big window at the far end of the room.  Little balls and bits of dust fluttered around in the air, like the stars passing across the spaceship view screen in the Star Wars video game his Mom had given him for his birthday.  He didn’t turn on the light.  It would have spoiled the magic.

            Joey slipped inside and left the door open just a crack.  There was nothing to be afraid of in the attic, but he felt better knowing he could get out quick, just in case.  He headed for the books first.

            In one corner of the attic there was an old, glass-fronted book case.  It was way too full, and the books had spilled out onto the floor in big piles.  There were even more sitting on top of the case, neat old books with leather covers and yellowed pages.  There was a Bible that had belonged to his Grandma’s grandma . . . older than Joey could even imagine.  Some were story books with slick, brightly colored pictures inside.  There were even a couple of yearbooks from when Grandma and Grandpa had been in school.  Joey liked those best, because he could see his grandparents as the young people they had once been -- it was like bringing them into his imaginary world.

            He flipped through the pages of one of the yearbooks, but the light wasn’t very good, and it was hard to make out faces or names.  He laid the book aside and moved past the book case to where a bunch of old clothes hung from a rolling cart.  There were old dresses, a bunch of coats, and even an old fur coat.  Grandma never wore that coat anymore, but Joey had seen pictures of it, and he liked the smile Grandma got when she saw herself in it.  He knew it must be a special coat, because it made her smile.  He rubbed the sleeves, feeling the softness slipping through his fingers, then brushed past to the really cool part of the attic.

            Behind those clothes was where the neatly stacked boxes and crates gave way to piles and odd shadows.  There were oddly shaped bundles laying about, piles of cool junk like statues and globes, bottles and old fishing poles.  In the middle of it, on a large stand, stood Oscar.  Oscar was an owl, a great-horned owl, his Grandpa said.  Grandpa had bought him, already stuffed, at a sale long ago, but Grandma wouldn’t let him keep the owl out where people could see it.  Joey had never understood that.  Oscar was probably the coolest thing in the whole house.  He’d have kept the bird in his bedroom if they would have let him.

            “Hey, Oscar,” he called out softly.  For some reason it seemed like a good idea not to speak too loudly in the attic.

            Behind and to the left of Oscar, just beside the big window, was a low shelf covered with all sorts of candles.  His Grandma had made those candles, in the shapes of tiny animals, and houses, and trees.  Sometimes she brought some of them down for Christmas decorations, or at Easter, but mostly she kept them on the shelf in the attic.  She never made candles any more, and Joey thought it was a shame.

            His favorite was a small group of cat candles.  The largest was named “Squirt,” after a cat his Grandpa had owned before he even met Joey’s Grandma.  Squirt had long, pretty grey fur with stripes like a tiger, and deep, staring green eyes.  Grandma had made the candle for Grandpa when Squirt died -- to help him remember.  The time Grandpa had told Joey about Squirt was the only time Joey ever saw his Grandpa cry.

            Now Joey visited the candles whenever he could.  He knew they were just wax, but somehow it seemed wrong to just leave them in the corner like that.  He liked the others, too. There were elephants from the circus, and bears.  There were pine trees that made a little forest when you stacked them all up side by side and a little ginger bread house to put next to them, like the one the witch in his story book lived in.  They might be just candles, but you could imagine them into something special.

            Just then, Joey heard a rustling sound behind him.  It didn’t come from near the door, really, but from the shadows across the piles of junk.

            “Probably a mouse,” he told himself.  Suddenly, the shadows seemed darker than they had been before.  The light that made the dust dance in the window had faded as the sun began to set, and the light didn’t seem bright enough anymore.

            He started to back toward the door, but as he moved, he heard the sound again.  Before he could run, there was a whoosh and a crack, and the door slammed shut.  He jumped clear off the floor at the sound, but he didn’t say anything.  It might have been the wind.  The wind had banged a branch against his bedroom window one night until he’d called out to his Dad.  They’d cut that branch down the next day.  The wind could do lots of scary things.

            It might be his Grandpa, too.  Grandpa was always sneaking up behind him and scaring him, then laughing and rubbing his chin-whiskers on Joey’s neck.  Joey wished it would be Grandpa more than anything, even though he knew he’d scream if anyone touched him.

            He had to walk right past the place where the sound came from to get to the light switch, or to the door.  The piles of old blankets and stacks of boxes looked different now.  He saw the shadows that hid between them, shadows he hadn’t noticed before.  He saw all the places someone, or something, could hide.  He moved forward slowly, breathing as quietly as he could.  The floor creaked when he stepped on it, and he froze in place again.  Nothing moved, so he took another step.

            When he heard it this time, it was louder, and it was definitely moving toward him.  The window was hardly giving him any light at all, and he backed up two quick steps.  He needed a way to see.  Then he remembered the candles.

            Grandma always kept a box of matches with the candles.  She said you never could tell when you’d need one, though Joey had never seen her light any of the ones she’d made.  She only lit the tall white ones that she put out on the table at Thanksgiving, or sometimes when the lights went out.  Joey ran to the candles, grabbing the first one he came to.  He also grabbed the matches.  He knew he would be in trouble for playing with the matches, and for lighting one of the special candles.  At that moment a week of being grounded in his room seemed like a great idea.

            He thought about yelling for his Grandpa, but he knew it was really hard to hear through the walls and the floor.  With the door closed, all he’d be doing was letting whatever it was know he was there.  As he fumbled with the match, he heard a grating sound, then a flutter.  Was that wings he heard?  Or something else?  He felt all sweaty, and it was hard to hold the match steady.  Finally he got it to the top of the candle and the flame rose, giving him a small circle of light to see in.  It meant that whatever was in that attic with him could see him, too. At least he could see it coming.

            He made his way slowly around in back of the old bookshelf, being careful to step around the scattered piles of books and magazines.  He grabbed an old plate from the top of one of the boxes and set the candle on top of it, just in time to keep the hot wax from running down over his fingers.  He stared at the candle for a second.  Shocked, he realized that it was Squirt.  He’d picked up the cat instinctively, but now was horrified that he’d lit the tiny cat on fire.  Grandpa’s memory would melt.

            There was no time to worry about it.  The fluttering sound came to him again, this time with a whoosh of air and a clatter, as something was knocked over and fell to the floor.  Then it was quiet again, and he started toward the door once more.  His mind was filled with pictures of bats, and giant birds.  As he rounded the corner, he looked to the middle of the room, and . . .

            He stopped short. 

            Oscar wasn’t there.  The stand where the big owl had perched was nowhere to be seen.  All of a sudden the fluttering sounds made sense.  Oscar was loose.  Somehow, after all these years, Oscar had decided to fly again, and the only thing in the attic to hunt was Joey.

            Stories about the Great Horned Owl came back to him, things his grandfather had told him.  They could see for miles, and they would swoop down out of the sky to catch small animals, even things as big as dogs.  The stories had seemed cool -- fun, even -- but now . . . ?  His heart seem like it was going to knock a hole in his chest, it was beating so hard.  He was bigger than a dog, but would Oscar care?  It had been a long time since they put him up here; what if he was hungry.

            “Oscar,” he whispered, sliding along the wall toward the door and watching the shadows carefully.  He no longer looked down among the boxes, but up into the gloomy rafters.  The only answer was a quick flutter.  Wings again, he thought.  There was no other sound.

            “Oscar, it’s just me,” he said, still moving toward the door.  The light from the candle made the shadows dance off of everything, turned every wall into a puppet show of monstrous shapes and hidden danger.  Only a few more steps, and he could turn on the light -- then he’d be safe.  Oscar would never attack in the light.

            Joey had to slip the last few feet across the middle of the room, and he knew he had to do it quick.  His knees felt weak, and the hair prickled on the back of his neck.  A scream was trying to work its way free of his throat, and the dust was itching at his nose.

            He ran for it.

            Suddenly, there was something on the floor in front of him, and before he could stop himself, or jump to go over it, his foot connected with a solid object, and he felt himself falling.  A horrible screech rose at his back. 

            As he fell, he heard the wings again, heard a scream like he’d heard in pet stores where they kept really big birds.  He dropped the candle, putting his hands out to stop his fall.

            He turned over, looking for the candle, but it had gone out, and at first he couldn’t see anything.  He was backed up against the door, but he was too scared to stand up.  All at once, a huge shadow swooped through the across the room.  It was headed right at him.  He couldn’t make out the shape, really, but he could see two pinpoints of light that had to be the bird’s eyes.  Oscar!

            What happened next was really weird.  Another shape launched itself from the attic floor, hissing and spitting, claws extended.  Seeing it, the bird veered off to one side.  There was a quick flurry of movement as the smaller shape leaped over a box, yowling, and launched itself in the direction of the bird.

            Joey jumped to his feet and turned, reaching for the light switch.  He snapped it on, just as the door opened.  Suddenly, his Grandpa was there, filling the doorway like a giant in a fairy tale.  Shaking, Joey leaped against his Grandpa, burying his head against the softness of his flannel shirt.

            “What’s going on here,” Grandpa asked, moving into the room and looking about.  There was a flutter of wings again, and a big, black shape soared from one end of the room to the other, making its way to a big hole in the rafters that Joey knew was a fan vent.

            “An owl,” his grandpa said.  “Well I’ll be.  You okay Joey?”

            Joey nodded.  “It was Oscar, Grandpa,” he said, trying not to sound scared.

            His Grandpa laughed.  Stepping forward and reaching down, he grabbed the wooden pole that was Oscar’s perch and set the stuffed bird upright again.  “I’m afraid not, Joey.  Oscar has flown his last flight.”

            “That owl attacked me,” Joey said, moving back toward the door, behind his Grandpa, and staring up at where the bird had disappeared.  “A cat saved me.”

            “Cat?”  Grandpa said slowly.  “There’s no cats up here, Joey.  I think your imagination is playing games with you.”

            Remembering the candle, Joey leaned down and searched about quickly.  He found Squirt where she’d fallen, but there was something weird.  She was just like he’d found her.  There was no sign that she had been lit, or burning.

            Grandpa saw the candle in Joey’s hand, and he smiled.  “Now, if old Squirt had been here, she’d have made short work of that bird.  I’ll put a screen up there tomorrow.  For now, young man, why don’t you come down to the kitchen.  I’ll make us some hot chocolate, and I’ll tell you about the time Squirt chased a hawk away from my chickens.  Now that was something.”

            Joey nodded.  He hurried across the attic and put the candle back with the others, staring at the cat for a long, long time.  He thought about how much he wanted to say thank you.  Just as he turned to go down stairs with his Grandpa, he thought he heard another sound.  This time it wasn’t wings.  It sounded like a cat purring.