The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

the wind was in the right direction or occasionally in the dead of night when sounds had a way of expanding; which was a blessing, as the constant yapping would otherwise drive her insane. Her chin hung down and dangled on her chest, as it dawned on her how often she thought that: thinking that this would drive her insane; that that would drive her potty. Maybe she was already passed the point of no return? She felt a pang of pity for Cal and the kids, having to put up with her.
    Finding little solace in the fresh air, she traipsed back indoors and mooched around, aimlessly wandering from room to room, picking up and putting down belongings with about as much purpose as a dead flea. Passing the airing cupboard door on the landing, she suddenly froze. A flame sizzled at the tail of her backbone and raced up to her brain, as though her spine was a lighted fuse. Her head snapped back and her eyes fixed themselves on the loft hatch above her. From the empty floor of the attic It was calling to her. It had called before, but always in a muffled, mellow voice that she’d been able to resist, but not today. Today it was the beguiling voice of a siren, luring her with its sweet, powerful song. Dashing into the twins room, she grabbed a chair, and emerging onto the landing, sited it directly under the hatch. Clambering onto the seat, she stretched up on her toes until her fingers could push it open, then head back, she gazed up into the blackness. She gulped anxiously, attempting to stop the yellow streak that was at that moment painting itself up the hollow of her spine, as she gave herself one last chance to back out. From somewhere within her throat, a sound formed, rumbling between her tonsils like they were a couple of Mike Tyson punch bags, sending the yellow scattering like droplets of water from ducks quills.
    Grimly, and at great risk of personal injury, she balanced one foot on the narrow ridge of the backrest, which creaked and protested loudly that it wasn ’t built to be stood on, before hauling herself up and through the opening before she could change her mind; entering her own private dungeon because it was the right thing to do; ready to face her demons with the backbone of a lion, and an expression of impending doom. In the half light that followed her up and ricocheted from the pale rafters, she spied the light switch to her right on the floor. She hit it, then sat for a moment, her legs dangling downwards like an anorexic version of Humpty Dumpty. Twisting her neck awkwardly, she stared behind her.
    It, was sitting innocently just where she ’d abandoned it, centre stage of an otherwise empty attic floor: the unobtrusive cardboard box that had once contained nothing more interesting than two dozen tins of cheap dog food. Could she bring herself to open it? Drawing her legs up behind her, she scrambled to her feet and moved to stand over it. There was already a layer of dust covering the top. Crouching down she brushed it clean with her finger tips. Still she hesitated, her fingers hovering over the hastily cello taped flaps. Cramp began to nibble at the muscles of her calves. She closed her eyes against the growing discomfort and inhaled, oblivious to the millions of tiny dust motes that shot up both nostrils. The cramp bit harder, and the muscles went into spasm. It was sheer torture. She shivered, and not just because around her, she sensed the atmosphere cool by a couple of degrees. Snapping back her eyelids she attacked the box like a starving bear on a picnic hamper, stripping away the sticky tape before tearing wide the cardboard leaves.
    Breathlessly she peered inside, aware of her own heart muscles trampolining in her chest. Plunging in her hands, she withdrew a small tin box, as gratefully, her legs lowered her to a sitting position on the floor. Balancing the tin on her knees, she studied the swirling pattern of coral pinks and watery greens that seemed to cartwheel and tumble across the lid, the colours reflected in her incandescent emerald eyes. She swallowed, her guts performing somersaults, as she struggled to find any moisture in her mouth that was suddenly dryer than the sawdust layer covering the floor of the Big Top.
    Meli wasn ’t a particularly religious woman by any means, but at that moment she was compelled to lift her eyes to the highest peak of the rafters and mouth a silent prayer for strength, strength to open the tin that had not seen the light of day for eleven months and