"Halloween Decorations" by David Lapage, Jr.

Halloween Decorations

by David Lapage, Jr.

I was nine years old when the accident happened.

Mom had asked Dad to get the Halloween decorations out of the attic so that she could start decorating the house. Dad had complained that Halloween was still over 2 weeks away, but she quickly reminded him that the neighbors three houses down, put theirs up two days ago and that the stores were already removing Halloween stuff to make space for Christmas. Dad grumbled and moaned but said he would do it. 

Dad cursed softly as he hauled the wooden ladder down. When the hatch opened a rectangle of yellow light poured out, illuminating millions of dust motes. The air was thick with a musty scent. A mix of dry fiberglass insulation, old cardboard, and something vaguely metallic, like a penny. 

I’d been up there a few times, so the space was familiar to me. A hot, silent graveyard of forgotten toys, holiday decorations, and unused furniture. My sister, however, had never been. She sat perfectly still, her huge blue eyes gazing upward into the glowing frame, radiating an intense, total curiosity. 

Dad climbed the wooden rungs, pausing for a moment when his head disappeared above the floor line. The rungs creaked under his weight as he continued up and into the attic. He disappeared for a few seconds, and we could hear the faint scraping of a plastic tote being dragged across the floorboards. Then the creaking resumed as he descended the ladder with a large tote, his face damp with sweat even though it was a cool October day.

He carried the tote down the stairway to the first floor. Sister watched him go, then turned to me. Her curiosity had turned into nervous excitement.

Do you want to see what’s up there? I whispered, fueled by the small thrill of breaking a rule.

She nodded her head once.

You can climb up when Dad leaves again. I heard his footsteps returning up the staircase, slow and heavy.

Dad went up to the attic, got some more totes and then headed back down to the first floor again. This time, he was quicker.

As soon as his feet hit the top stair and he started down, I nudged her. Go now.

She scrambled to the ladder, her small, socked feet finding the rungs easily. She climbed with total commitment, her face a mixture of excitement and fear. As she reached the fourth rung from the top, the light from the attic haloed her hair.

Just as her hands were about to grip the lip of the hatch, I saw her freeze. In the fraction of a second before gravity took over, I glimpsed her face in the dusty yellow light. It was a mask of pure, silent, paralyzing terror. A fear so complete it turned her body rigid. With a cry she flinched backward, pushing herself off the ladder. Then the cry was replaced by a dull, unnatural thud as she hit the thin hallway runner.

Everything after happened fast. The world exploded into screaming, mine, Mom’s, Dad’s. But the chaos couldn't erase the memory of the thud. That impact was the sound of her neck breaking.

I am fourteen, standing on the same hallway runner.

I look up at the closed hatch, and I can hear my sister’s ventilator in the room across the hall. It is a constant presence in our house, a relentless, mechanical metronome counting the years since my mistake. 

Hiss… (inhale) …Gurgle-Click. (exhale) Hiss… Gurgle-Click. 

I haven’t been allowed to forget for a single moment, not by my parents, not by the rhythmic machine, and certainly not by myself. The sound is as much a part of the house as the groan of the old furnace or the ice machine. 

We realized soon after the accident why she had gotten so scared. Dad had left a plastic monster decoration just inside the attic, hidden from view until sister had her head up there. It was the first thing she saw in the attic, and it terrified her. Dad had left it there, intending to bring it down on his next trip. Things might be a lot different if we had just waited one more round. 

Moving through the house like ghosts, Mom and Dad now rarely speak, propelled only by the exhausting, endless task of caring for the motionless body of their daughter. The ladder to the attic was screwed closed because Dad said that no one was ever going up there again. All holiday décor had been discarded.

For five years, I’ve imagined what my sister saw in that final moment: the hideous, plastic face leering at her from the darkness, a jump-scare that stole her future. It was stupid. A moment of lapsed responsibility by my father, but I was the one who whispered, Go now.

I turn and walk slowly across the hall, the carpet muffling my steps. I pause at her door. It’s always slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside the room.

She lays there, small in the large hospital bed. Her skin is pale, almost translucent. Her eyes are open and follow me as I move around the bed. 

I walk to the bedside, my fingers trembling slightly as they hover over her cheek. I don't touch her. Instead, I whisper the four words that have been my silent apology for five years, I am so sorry.

The ventilator offers its only reply. Hiss …Gurgle-Click.

I am fourteen, and I know I will never leave this house, never escape this sound. Because in this house, I am not just her brother. I am the reason for the accident, the one who opened the door to the monster. The sound of the breathing machine reminds me that I am waiting for a moment of forgiveness that I have already accepted will never come.