I work the knife into the bulge and chip away the paint. Yellowish plaster flakes and falls onto the floor. The knife plunges a few inches into the hole I’ve created, scrapes against something. Using a flashlight, I can see dusty metal rods but not much else. I try to move them with my fingers. Nothing. I chip away more plaster. Still nothing moves. I’m tired and sweaty and annoyed, but then I move the knife sideways and hear a scrape and a click. The wall in front of me groans and moves away.
Flecks of paint fall into my hair. A rush of hot, stale air hits my face while at the same time my brain registers soft crackling sounds. I blink in surprise and look up. Oh, no. What was I thinking? When the door in my wall opened, the paint that covered the minute space between door and frame cracked and crumbled away. Long parallel lines extend from the floor to about a foot from the ceiling, where a horizontal line joins them. I’ve ruined part of Ansel’s painting and left telltale signs on the wall of my midnight misdeeds.
How do I explain this? Before I can figure out what to do, Fat Cat jumps down from the bed and zooms into the dark space of the newly-opened doorway.
“Fat Cat, come back!” I stage-whisper.
I hear his low “mrrrrrrr,” and jangling collar bells, sounding muffled and far away. Stupid cat. Now I have to find him before I can do anything to fix my wall. I grab my cell, figuring I can use it as a flashlight, and step into the stale air behind the door in my wall.
Seven
The first thing that hits me is the smell of old dust. The place reeks like a museum. The weak light from my cell sends out a short beam that ends only inches in front of my face. Beyond that is nothing but a wall of darkness, but Fat Cat’s bells tinkle from somewhere ahead. I move the light and find myself in a narrow hall. There’s a small square opening a few feet away.
“Fat Cat!” I hiss. Darn him! That dwarf-sized door is kind of creepy. It’s so low I have to crouch down to go through. Fat Cat finally answers, sounding even farther away than before. I take a deep breath and crawl through the tiny opening, and then I have to edge around a big, solid-looking thing covered with a dusty cloth. My light beam shows me a large open area, and lots of weird shapes, and I almost scream, because eyes are looking at me. Heart in my throat, I realize it’s a painting.
When I look around, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Paintings are everywhere; they’re on the walls, on tables, on chairs, on the floor. This single room looks like it has more artwork than a gallery. I gawk at everything in full shock mode. The cloth-covered furniture crowds around me like lumpy ghosts trying to edge closer, and everywhere I aim the glow from my cell phone I see paintings, books, and papers piled in random jumbles.
Ancient wallpaper is peeling away from the wall in spots. Big flaps hang down and brush the floor. Moving the light beam, I jump when it reflects back into my eyes. The light was bouncing off a tall mirror with a gold frame. My footsteps are muffled by a thick carpet that feels gritty under my bare feet.
I should be scared. I should be in a hurry to find Fat Cat and get out. But I can’t help another feeling that creeps over me. It’s a funny mix of excitement and defiance. I’m breaking and entering. Well, something like that. My mother would definitely not approve.
Tearing sounds come from another room and I jump a mile out of my skin. Then, I hear Fat Cat’s growly voice, and I hurry to wind through and around strange objects in the dark, because I know that Fat Cat likes to sharpen his claws. There’s probably a lot of stuff in here that he’d shred if he got the chance.
I find him in the next room. Instead of an art gallery, this long rectangular space is a menagerie. In the dim glow of my flashlight, a stuffed Mickey Mouse and a toy pig next to him stare at me in wide-eyed surprise. Both look old-fashioned, and the threadbare toys are covered with dust, like everything else in here. A rusted birdcage hangs from the ceiling, and one shelf is jammed with stuffed birds, from tiny swallows to a massive owl with outspread wings. Fat Cat is trying to shred a dead ostrich bigger than I am. I grab the cat by his collar and pull him off while a few moldy feathers float to the floor.
While I back away, gripping the collar of my solid feline friend, my thoughts are muddy with confusion. Hundreds of paintings, furniture, and dead birds? And all in an empty apartment that nobody has lived in for decades. Why? Why didn’t the people who left take this stuff with them? Then I hear a sound. Water gurgles through pipes above my head. Someone flushed a toilet upstairs. I have to get out of here, fast. What if that person were to come down here and find me?