Monster in the Attic

There was a monster locked in my attic.

This monster was my biological elder brother Rocky, and he had been locked away by my parents for a full twenty-four years.

My parents told me that Rocky was mentally ill, with violent tendencies, so they had to lock him up to prevent him from hurting others.

But once, when I accidentally entered the room, Rocky covered my mouth and, with a look of fear, told me that those two people weren't my real parents.

01

When I was three years old, I knew there was a monster locked in the attic.

To be more precise, it was my elder brother Rocky.

But from the time I could remember, I had never seen Rocky.

Rocky was always locked in a small room in the attic. My parents said Rocky was sick.

They said Rocky would hurt people for no reason, had intellectual disabilities, and violent tendencies.

To prevent Rocky from hurting others, they had no choice but to lock Rocky in the attic.

I had seen my parents secretly wiping away tears for Rocky more than once.

Every mealtime, either my mom or dad would take food up to Rocky. I had never been to that small room.

Because I was afraid of Rocky.

Ever since I was young, I would constantly hear the sound of chains dragging in the attic, along with Rocky's low growls.

This became a shadow over my childhood.

The word brother was like a nightmare to me.

I never told any of my friends about Rocky's existence.

One day after school, my parents were out. They told me the food was in the fridge and I could heat it up easily.

Over the phone, my mother repeatedly reminded me not to go into the attic.

Even if she hadn't said that, I would never go up there.

To me, it was a forbidden place.

I heated the food and started eating while watching some shows.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of chains dragging from the attic.

It was Rocky.

I frowned and tried to ignore it, but soon there were painful howls coming from upstairs.

The sound was so full of pain that it made me feel uneasy.

Was Rocky in discomfort?

Although I didn't like him, he was still my family.

I swallowed my fear and cautiously climbed the stairs to the attic.

The attic was small and dark, with a red wooden door that had a lock on it.

I knew where the key was hidden. Even though my mother always tried to hide it from me, I had seen her put it away.

I tiptoed to the bookshelf, took down a book, and retrieved the key hidden inside.

The painful howls continued from behind the door. As I inserted the key into the lock, my heart began to race faster.

Finally, the door opened.

After eighteen years, I was entering this room for the first time.

The stench hit me immediately, making me cough several times.

I saw a man chained by his hands and feet, with an unkempt beard and hair so long it almost covered his entire face.

This was my brother, my blood relative.

Seeing him, I didn't feel the fear I had imagined. Instead, I felt a sudden urge to cry.

"Rocky?"

I called softly.

He was panting heavily, his mouth opening as he let out a hissing sound.

It dawned on me that he might not be able to speak.

But his eyes didn't seem hostile.

I cautiously approached Rocky, and the closer I got, the stronger the foul smell became.

I crouched down in front of him. "Rocky, is there something you want to tell me?"

He nodded, and tears rolled down his face.

I found some paper and a pen and handed them to him.

But his hands were covered in wounds, so much so that he couldn't even hold the pen.

Struggling, he bit the pen and wrote a line of words on the paper.

"They are not our real parents."

02

Seeing that line, I froze.

But before I could ask Rocky what he meant, I heard the sound of my parents opening the front door downstairs.

Panic and fear filled Rocky's eyes as he signaled me to leave quickly.

I hurriedly took the paper and pen, locked the door, and returned the key to its place.

I heard my parents' footsteps coming up the stairs, so I quickly hid behind the bookshelf.

Luckily, they didn't notice me and took out the key to open the door.

They entered with the food, and soon, Rocky's growls sounded again.

While they were still inside, I rushed downstairs and hid in the bathroom, pretending I had just come out when they found me.

My mother smiled at me and said, "Look what I brought you."

Following her gaze to the table, I saw my favorite tiramisu cake.

For eighteen years, whenever my parents went out, they never forgot to bring me the cake I loved.

Their care for me was meticulous.

I remember when I had a fever of 39 degrees Celsius as a child, my mother stayed up all night to take care of me for three days.

How could such loving parents be fake?

But Rocky's words still filled me with doubt.

I acted nonchalant, eating the cake while casually asking, "Mom, do we have any family photos from when I was younger?"

My mom smiled and said, "Of course we do. Haven't you forgotten that we take a family photo every year? It's just that your poor brother..."

As she spoke, her eyes reddened.

"I mean family photos from before I was three years old," I said slowly.

My mom looked at me in surprise. "Bailee, why do you suddenly want to see photos from that time?"

"It's just that our teacher wants us to bring family photos from when we were little for a themed class meeting," I fabricated a reason.

My mother said helplessly, "Before you were three, our family was going through a tough financial time. We couldn't afford a camera

back then."

My heart sank.

I started forming memories when I was three, and I have images of my parents from that time in my mind.

But the fact that there were no family photos from before I was three made it impossible to verify whether Rocky's words were true.

At that moment, I heard my father sigh deeply and say, "Bailee, Rocky's condition is getting worse. Lately, he's been making up lies, trying to say anything to be

let out."

"We've been seeking doctors to treat Rocky's illness these days. Mom and Dad don't want him to become a burden to you," my mother said, her eyes red.

My mind was in turmoil.

Compared to Rocky, whom I had just met, I was more inclined to trust the parents who had raised me for eighteen years.

Their care for me wasn't fake.

After finishing the cake, I went back to my room and absentmindedly worked on some practice problems.

Next year was crucial for me, but I couldn't get Rocky's pained expression out of my mind.

There was a knock at the door, and my mother came in with a glass of milk.

"Bailee, Mom knows you work hard, but you need to take care of yourself too." She placed the glass of milk on my desk.

I was still a bit full from the cake and didn't feel like drinking milk, but my mother stood there, staring at me.

"Bailee, drink it while it's hot. I'll take the cup to wash afterward."

Her eyes were insistent.

I hesitated for a moment, realizing that my mother had always been like this, eagerly watching me finish the milk.

"Mom, just leave it there. I'll drink it later."

She left reluctantly, repeatedly reminding me to drink the milk.

A thought crossed my mind. Could there be something wrong with this glass of milk?

But I quickly dismissed it. I've been drinking this milk for over ten years. If there were something wrong, something would have happened to me a long time ago.

I picked up the glass, about to drink, when I caught a glimpse of the door being slightly ajar.

I turned my head and saw my mother's pale face peeking through the crack, expressionless, watching me.

"Mom, what are you doing?"

I blurted out in shock.

She gave me an awkward smile. "I was just worried you wouldn't drink the milk and miss out on the nutrients."

Her attitude only made me more suspicious of the milk.

"Mom, I'm grown up now. You don't need to worry so much," I said helplessly.

"Okay, but make sure you drink it," she said as she left.

My heart pounded as I quickly poured the milk into the toilet and flushed it away.

Late at night, while my parents were asleep, I quietly went up to the attic again.

I carefully unlocked the door with the key, and when Rocky saw me, his eyes were filled with intense emotion.

In front of him were the untouched leftovers that my mother had brought earlier.

I was shocked by what I saw.

The food was all leftovers, mixed together, emitting a foul smell.

The thought of the delicious meals I had eaten compared to the pig slop in front of Rocky made my nose sting.

How could my parents treat Rocky like this?

Could Rocky be telling the truth?

"Rocky, is this what dad and mom usually feed you?"

I asked, unable to bear it.

Rocky remained silent, but I already knew the answer.

Despite being an adult man, Rocky's arms were thinner than mine.

I handed the pen to him, desperate for the truth.

If they weren't our real parents, where were our real parents?

Rocky, struggling, bit the pen and scrawled a crooked line on the paper.

"They killed our parents when you were only two years old."

My heart raced as I read the words, finding it hard to believe.

"I was eight at the time. I saw their faces, so they've kept me locked up here, pretending I

was sick.

Our grandfather had set aside a large sum of money for us in a bank early on. The bank sends money every month. They can't access the funds, so they've kept us alive. But if something happens to you, they can take

the money.

Don't eat or drink anything they give you. They've definitely poisoned

it slowly."

These crooked lines of text were horrifying.

Rocky, with his frail hands, grabbed my shoulders. His eyes were determined and strong.

"You need to strike first, kill them, and avenge

our parents."

That was the last thing Rocky wrote.

Just then, I heard the sound of the door opening downstairs.