In their apartment, Sam saw that the light was on in the laundry room.
"Mom? Are you home?" Sam glanced in the bedrooms. There were no signs of her.
Sam entered the laundry room and tried the knob on the door into Mrs. Steers part of the house, but it was locked. After switching the light off in the laundry room, he bumped into the folded-up ironing board. It fell into the attic door, causing it to pop open. Sam stood surprised looking down at the ironing board now flat on the floor, trying to remember if his Mom had left it out. She had finished ironing the day before. Sam looked at the attic door.
"Why is the attic door unlocked? It's usually locked.” Sam peeked into the crack of the slightly open door. Since his mom wasn't home yet, he figured a quick check wouldn't hurt.
"Wait," whispered Sam, remembering that scary movie from the other night.
"That woman heard a noise from the basement… When she checked… without turning the lights on… a bunch of little monsters dragged her away." Sam slowly pulled the attic door open further, just enough to see it was dark and dusty.
Taking the flashlight from the junk drawer in the kitchen, Sam opened the attic door the rest of the way. Sam flashed the light up the dark stairs. Cobwebs in the corners swayed. From somewhere at the top of the stairwell, dim sunlight entered the attic.
"Hello? Anyone up there?" said Sam. "Mrs. Steers, are you up there?"
Silence. Nothing stirred. Nothing moved.
"Anyone?" He said a little louder. "Mrs. Steers?"
Sam crept up the stairs, stopped, and listened. Still nothing. Reaching the top of the step, he flashed the light around the dimly lit attic. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Cobwebs stretched from the high-pitched ceiling to the exposed rafters. He could see the joists and the dormers. Curtained windows allowed some sunlight in.
Sam found a light switch at the top of the stairwell. Click. A few light bulbs began to glow, lighting up a main aisle.
"Look at this! It looks like a museum!" The attic was a packed treasure trove of stuff, waiting for exploration. His curiosity skyrocketed as he tiptoed down the center path.
Sam brushed past stacks of cardboard boxes, trying to avoid getting dusty. Old worn-out sheets covered what looked like chairs and tables. An old rocking horse waited for a young rider to straddle its red leather saddle. Antique trunks stacked three high at most. A gramophone with a large brass horn. Large paintings covered with sheets stood against a bookcase packed with well-loved books. Sam pulled back a sheet to reveal a portrait of an elderly yet stately gentleman in a suit.
He knew little about the Steers, but apparently, they didn't throw anything away.
Sam brushed up against a dress-makers dummy causing it to sway back and forth. He shone his flashlight between two towering stacks of cardboard boxes. Two glowing eyes peered from the shadows. Sam jumped back, falling against a stack of trunks. Dust flew from all directions. Coughing, Sam fanned the fog of dust away from his face. Timidly, he shone the light between them again. This time, a mounted head of an open-mouth tiger greeted him, staring right at him. Sam stopped wide-eyed. Its eyes sparkled from the light. It didn't move. It wasn't alive.
"Whoa! Nice kitty," said Sam, sighing with relief, with his heart still racing.
He stooped down to look in a partially opened cardboard box. He could see wrapped bundles of brittle yellowed newspapers. It was March 4, 1968. He reached in and felt one of the wrapped bundles.
"Is that a cup? Hmmm… this one feels like a vase." As he reached for another wrapped bundle, a grey mouse ran from between a couple of wrapped items and looked up at him. Sam quickly pulled his hand out of the box.
"Hey, Mr. Mouse. Better watch it. There's a large cat hanging out back there." More scared of Sam, the mouse scurried its way back into the depths of the crumpled newspaper.
Flashing his light around, Sam noticed a square table, not covered with a sheet. On top of it, placed dead center, sat a long, rectangular red box, the kind that clothes were often wrapped in at Christmas. Sam focused the flashlight on it and walked over to the table. Sam saw the box had a decorated Christmas tree in the center under which was printed in green letters "L.S. Ayres Department Store, Indianapolis."
Sam was puzzled and looked around at the other sheet-covered furniture. Sam ran his hand across the table, then the lid of the box. "Why is there no dust on the table or the box? Everything else is covered in dust."
His streak of curiosity got the best of him and his imagination raced.
"What could be inside? A treasure map? Gold coins? Jewels?" Sam muttered.
Laying the flashlight down, he removed the lid. Inside was a folded newspaper. Across the top, it read "The London Times" and dated August 23, 1888. After staring for a moment, Sam picked up the newspaper and unfolded it. Unlike the newspaper in the boxes, this one was like new.
"This has to be a fake. It unfolded too easy." Sam read a couple of headlines and then saw something strange on the upper left edge. He picked up the flashlight and focused on a weird smudge. Glancing inside the box, he saw a hand-written note on a index card.
This newspaper may have the only clue to the identity of London's most notorious serial killer. A bloody fingerprint of Jack the Ripper. It was found at the murder scene of Catherine Eddowes on September 30, 1888. #39
The past few weeks of Sam’s history class had focused on Victorian England. He remembered reading something about Jack the Ripper murdering several women in an area of London know as Whitechapel.
Sam scoffed at the idea. "Pffft... Someone's playing a stupid joke. This can't be for real." Leaning over the newspaper, he began to read more of the headlines, but he was interrupted.
"Sam, I'm home.” It was his mom. He heard the front door close.
Startled, Sam quickly refolded the newspaper, put it back in the box, and put on the lid. He started to walk away, but then he picked up the box.
"No. What are you doing?" whispered Sam. "You can't take this. It's not yours." Sam really wanted to ask Mrs. Steers about it, but he put it back on the table and tiptoed back to the stairs. If his mom found out he had been where he wasn’t supposed to be, he would be in big trouble. When he reached the bottom step, his mom came into the laundry room.
"Why is this door open? Have you been up there?" she said in her "you're-in-deep-trouble-mister" tone.
Sam explained about the ironing board, the unlocked door, and possibly a burglar. Being honest with his mom, he explained no one was up there, but his curiosity had taken over.
"You should have gone downstairs for help. You know we are not to go up there." Emily shut the attic door. Sam nodded in agreement staring down at his feet.
"I saw Mrs. Steers on the front porch," said Emily. "Go downstairs, apologize for being somewhere you were not supposed to be, and ask her politely to come up and lock it. When you come back up, you are to finish your homework, if it isn't done already. That is a direct order." A direct order from his mom meant do it or else. This was not the time to argue.
"I have groceries to put away." His mom went to her bedroom to change clothes.
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