The Attic

“I think I regret this move. If this is how summer is going to be, I might just have a heat stroke one of these days,” I complained to my wife, Leigh-Anne, who was unbuckling her seat belt from the passenger side. She chuckled, “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Three months back, my wife and I decided that it would be good for us to move because we were bored in Minnesota and wanted a fresh start. She thought it would be a good idea to live in Nevada because there were many job opportunities at casinos, and with my background in Sales and Marketing, I would be a shoo-in. She found a nice, two-room rental house online for us to view. The landlord wanted to meet with us so we could take a look around — which leads us to the present time.

We pulled up to a breathtaking mid-century cottage with solid frames of wood and rugged brick. The landscape was green and lush, adorned with bushes of Holly shrubs, and lined with a Cedar fence draped in Petunias. It was cheaper than most houses in that area. Therefore, she immediately fell in love with it. In the driveway was a very old car. My wife immediately recognized it as a 1954 Chevy Bel-Air. Her father is a vintage and classic car enthusiast and seller. A handsome man with a beaming smile stepped out of the car and began to approach us. He was wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt with grey pleated trousers, and black Monk shoes. His thick black hair was slicked back with gel. He had a slim, yet muscular build, and appeared to be in his younger 30s. Considering it was 2011, his love for classic nostalgia made him stick out like a sore thumb.

“You must be the lovely Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler I spoke to over the phone! I’m Brian Finnegan.” He extended his hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you! I’m Leigh-Anne. This is my husband, Thomas.” As we shook, I noticed his hands were soft and smooth, but his grip was very firm.

“The main reason why I wanted to meet the both of you was to ensure that I would be handing this house over to people who would take good care of it. My wife and I built this home ten years ago when we were in our 20’s. We’ve made good memories here in that short amount of time. We decided that we wanted something bigger, so we figured ‘why not put this home up for rent at a reasonable price for another young couple to enjoy?' Anyways, I'll let you look around, and if it piques your interest, I have the paperwork here for you to sign, and we'll be all done.” My wife and I smiled in acknowledgement and proceeded to walk in. Through the window’s reflection, I noticed his gaze still upon us, his beaming grin hadn't faltered. When I looked back, his gaze averted.

We explored the inside; the house was a lot bigger than it appeared on the internet. It was very open and spacious, with bay windows that let in a lot of natural sunlight. We noticed the hues of pastels: the pinks, yellows and mints. The wood moldings and baseboards were made of Cherry, the carpet was woven and plush. Although the fixtures were a little dated, they were beautiful. The retro Frigidaire in the kitchen was a nice touch. Once we finished looking around, we decided that this house would be a good fit for us, so we signed the papers, paid the rent, and grabbed the keys. The landlord walked outside with us and sighed. “Well, I guess that takes care of everything. I'm really happy that you like the house. Please, take care of it.”

My wife reassured him with a smile, “We will. This house is perfect!” With an expression of approval and a nod, he began to walk back to his car. We gave him a small wave as he drove away.

“Well, that was creepy,” I said, breaking the silence. “How so?” she murmured. “Did you see the way he was staring at us? And that grin! What was that about?” My wife rolled her eyes at me and walked away. I hadn't intended to sound critical. Our encounter was brief and pleasant, but I had an inexplicable feeling afterwards . . . something about the look in his eyes.

I followed Leigh-Anne back into the house. She was ecstatic knowing that this was our new home. She started to spin and twirl around the living room. As she spun, my attention shifted to a long string hanging from a ceiling panel in the hallway. I hadn't noticed it before. “Honey, did you know that we have an attic?” I asked her. She stopped what she was doing before walking over to me and said, “Hmm, I had no idea. I didn’t see it when we were looking around.”

I pulled the string from the attic door and a ladder cascaded down. My wife uttered, “I am absolutely not going first, Thomas,” as if she was reading my mind. Reluctantly, I started to climb while she followed behind me. The bulb hanging from the light fixture surprisingly still worked when I pulled the pendant through the layers of cobwebs. The dust was overwhelming; even so, Leigh-Anne’s sneeze still startled me as it resounded through the room. “What is that?” she asked me. I was confused as to what she was referring to, until I saw her pointing at a suspicious package wrapped in brown paper. We didn’t think too much of it because we knew that it was just something the landlord had left behind. However, we couldn’t help but be curious.

I walked over and knelt down to it. I unwrapped the brown paper. The box’s appearance implied that it was new. However, the tape that was used to seal it was worn out. It was as if someone had been opening and resealing it over an extended amount of time. The tape was barely sticking anymore. I opened the box that revealed a stack of photos with vintage black and white filters on them. Most of the photos were of a smiling Brian Finnegan taken at home, traveling, and many other places. Some were with his wife and two daughters, and many were from his childhood.

“These photos seem meaningful. We should return these,” I stated. “He just moved out, so he’ll remember to come get them in a few days,” said Leigh-Anne.

“I know but . . . imagine if it was us in this situation. We’d want these memorable photos returned to us no matter how long ago we left them.” My wife relented in agreement once she heard my sincere tone. She suggested that we call him first. He didn’t pick up. She gasped as if she suddenly remembered something, and began walking down the ladder; I followed her.

She began to rummage through her purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “This is his new address. When we were talking on the phone, he said that if there was any emergency or maintenance issue, we should come to his place if we couldn't reach him. Now that I think about it, that sounds a little strange,” she chuckled. I snickered, before grabbing the keys and the box.

"Oh, we're going now?" she asked.

"Of course. We shouldn't keep these here for too long."

We locked up the house and began to drive to the address written down. As I was driving, I became hot and my hands started to sweat. I don't know why. It felt like I was suddenly becoming nervous about absolutely nothing. The only thing I could do was ignore such a feeling.

About thirty minutes later, we drove up the long, circular driveway to a two story modern farmhouse on acres of beautiful bucolic land. “There's something about seeing someone who you barely know twice in a day that makes it very awkward,” I said, as we unbuckled our seat belts. “Oh no,” my wife exclaimed, “I didn't even think about that. Let's just wait until tomorrow.”

“We drove all this way, let's just face this awkwardness together,” I said, jokingly.

We approached the front of the house, Leigh-Anne knocked on the door. It opened. “How may I help you?” There was an elderly man with a charming demeanor holding onto his cane. My wife and I gave each other a brief glance, confused. Re-affixing her gaze towards the man, she said, “Hello. We came here looking for someone, but we think we may have the wrong address.” His facial expression was one of perplexity. She cleared her throat and continued, “Does someone by the name of Brian Finnegan live here?”

“Yes. What brings you here?” he questioned. I replied, “We found a package full of some of his old photos. We thought it was only right to give it back.”

His puzzled face lit up instantly once I mentioned the photos. He grabbed the package excitedly from my clutch and started to cry. “I have been looking for these photos for 57 years! Oh how can I ever repay you two?”

My eyebrows furrowed and my wife's expression became more bewildered.

“Wait, what do you mean '57 years'? A man named Brian just moved out of the house,” I said. He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Son, I AM Brian Finnegan, but the last time I rented out that house was 57 years ago. I thought these photos were destroyed in the big house fire that killed that poor young couple.” I felt my heart sink into the pit of my stomach. “Unfortunately, my wife passed away four years ago, and these were some of the only photos that we had left from that time. My two daughters have started families, so sometimes as a widower, it gets lonely living here. But, they visit all the-”.

“No no no!” Leigh-Anne exclaimed in disbelief. “Now is not the time for storytelling and banter. You're not understanding! I have been emailing and talking over the phone for the past couple of months with a young man named Brian Finnegan regarding that house,” my frustrated wife asserted. “Do you have a son?” she asked. “No, just my two daughters, but they live in-”

I interrupted, “We literally just met him this morning! Our names are Thomas and Leigh-Anne Wheeler. He said that he and his wife built that house when they were in their 20's and that they've lived there for 10 years. The photos in your hands definitely resemble you, but none of this is making sense. Is this some sort of joke? Because I’m not laughing!” My brain couldn't wrap itself around what was happening.

He gave us a curious gaze.“Did you say ‘Wheeler?’ I'm sorry, but I really think that you are mistaken. The Wheelers are the couple who died in that tragic fire,” he said affirmatively. “No, you’re mistaken!” I yelled, peering intently at him. “We are the Wheelers, and we’re very much ALIVE!” He gulped and stared for a moment. Speechless. A realization had hit him as he stepped backwards and slowly closed the door. I suppose it had hit us too. We walked down the driveway, our mouths agape. We got into the car and sat there in silence, terrified. A tapping on the upstairs window inside of the house grabbed our attention. Standing there, was the handsome young man with the Hawaiian shirt and slicked back hair, smiling down at us.

As we continued to sit there together, our eyes met. Smoke started to fill the air, and the vision of Leigh-Anne began to fade. Our lives were changed in an instant, all because of that suspicious package wrapped in brown paper.

The End.