Testing each part of the floor with an outstretched foot, I made my way towards the closest box. Like all the other boxes in the attic, it was a plain cardboard box, big enough to fit me inside if I were to curl up in the foetal position. It was smothered with dust and contained lots of grubby, dusty, old books. I picked up a few, surprised to find them written in another language. Latin perhaps. I was careful to check for Deadly’s friends before picking anything up. I sneezed three times and more dust clouded the air.

One box down, seven to go.

I had been up in the attic only about ten minutes so far, giving me quite a bit longer before Mother came back. Hopefully.

I pulled open the second box and stared. It was full of photo albums. I picked up the top one and blew off the dust. The moment suddenly felt so big that I stopped breathing. Something tickled my arm and I screamed in terror at the enormous, big-bodied spider on my right forearm. For a moment I was paralysed. It looked like Deadly’s bigger, hairier father.

I dropped the album and flicked Deadly Senior off my arm with my free hand. My skin crawled and I rubbed my arm frantically, desperate to be rid of the lingering feel of his spindly legs on my skin. Revulsion pulsed through me. I exhaled shakily and looked down at the album, which had fallen open to the middle.

Taped to the page was a black-and-white photograph of two girls who looked about the same age as each other, perhaps ten or eleven years old, holding hands. One girl was a lot prettier than the other with a rounder, more symmetrical face and a small, delicate nose. The pretty girl smiled at the camera but the other did not. Both girls were dressed in identical frilly dresses and wore their hair in matching bunches. I brought the album close to my face and stared closely. Both girls’ faces were painted like mine. I recognized the plainer girl as Mother. The other girl must have been Olivia. Mother’s twin sister. My evil aunt. Except, she didn’t look evil. If anything, it was Mother who looked a bit—

A banging sound interrupted my train of thought. Mother’s home.

I left the album where it was, leapt over the box, scurried back to the attic door and scrambled down the ladder, heart thrashing. My feet found carpet and I seized the ladder and hoisted it up. It was heavy but it slid up, up, up … and then I couldn’t push it any further up because I was too short.

I froze, listening for Mother, but all was quiet. Had it been Mother I’d heard, or had I imagined the distant banging sound?