“So yer saying something's breathing up in there?” A large, burly man with a thick, copper red beard full of singed spots said as he pointed up at the attic hatch. Ross nodded. He had a distinct likeness to his father, down to the very freckles over the bridge of the nose. Cautiously he stayed behind his father, who was a huge man by any standard: taller than Ross by an inch or two, and shaped by a lifetime of both hard menial labour and one too many slices of his mother's custard pies. It meant Ross could make a decent attempt at hiding behind him as his inner spooked child took over the closer they got to opening the hatch.
“I donnae know fer sure?” He stammered softly, still torn on whether or not what he had seen the night before was a dream.
“We’ll be finding out then.” His father said as he grabbed the hatch and pulled it open, setting the ladder down on the floor with a rough bonk. He was a bit too wide for the hatch, since it was made for those of more sensible shape, and had to squeeze through to fit.
Ross looked up, rather uncertain about it all, and saw his father immediately groan in disgust by the scent.
“Whatever ye've got in here ain't breathing. Come on, what're ye standing about fer? Ye waiting for the Queen to show her arse to ye?” His father gestured for him to get up, already agitated. If there was one thing he feared more than a ghost it would be his father's rage, so he quickly nodded and scurried up the ladder.

Immediately the smell of rot invaded his nose, and when he instinctually gagged he lost the sparse footing he had in the cramped space. He let out a surprised yelp when his misplaced foot slipped over the edge of the hatch, his saving grace a huge hand that grabbed the front of his shirt and kept him from falling.
“Careful!” His father shouted, loud and angry from fright. “Don’t go breaking yer legs from a damned attic.”
Ross nodded wide eyed, frightened twice now from the fall and the shouting.
As his father's words rang away through the attic another sound became apparent: a low, but loud buzzing noise, increasing and decreasing in volume erratically.
“Well, ye were right, something focking went and died in here.” His father groaned angrily, but his voice was muffled by the sleeve of his shirt he kept pressed against his nose and mouth. It was difficult to hear over the droning noise.
Ross cautiously followed behind his father as he moved deeper into the attic, and saw dusty rays of sunlight illuminating the silhouette of the large man, together with dozens of flies that tapped against the window in a frenzy. Impatient and already having had enough of both his son's fright and the stench, his father quickly stepped forward to the source. Only for him to recoil as he turned to look behind the boxes.
“Fer focksake… urgh…” He shouted into his elbow. “Give me that.” With his free hand outstretched, he gestured for Ross to bring him a sheet of canvas tarp thrown over a box.
Ross did as he was told, quickly pulling the canvas away and handing it over, even if he dreaded getting closer.
“What is it… oh God…” The moment he looked behind the boxes he was met with the sight of a dead, rotting cat nailed to a wooden roof beam by its front paws. Its belly had been carved open straight down the center, dark green guts spilling out onto a blood stained floor. Yet it moved, bulging and pulsing. It took an agonizingly long moment for him to realise it was writhing with maggots.

Without so much as a warning, he felt the contents of his stomach rush up into his throat. He half pushed, half threw the canvas towards his father and pressed both hands against his mouth trying to not spew all over him. He didn't get further than four or five hasty steps before he let it go down the attic hatch out of pure desperation. When he tried to take a breath, the stench vividly brought up the image of the cat again. His stomach contracted so hard it hurt, making him spew violently for a second time.
Bent forwards on all fours over the edge of the hatch, he tried to spit out the acrid taste still lingering in his mouth. He heard his father's heavy footsteps near, and looked up at the annoyed man. There was no dignity left in him whatsoever to pretend he wasn't miserable.
“I'm sorry.” He whined, afraid of the consequences. A large hand grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him back up on his wobbly feet. The coarse, dusty piece of canvas wiped the drool from his mouth unceremoniously, and he sputtered against it weakly.
“Did ye get it all out?” His father asked in a low, irritated tone. He nodded hastily. “Now do ye want to make yerself useful, or do I need to fetch yer mum?”
Ashamed, Ross immediately shook his head and took the stained canvas from his father. Unwilling to draw any more of his father's ire, and by now frustrated himself with this whole mess, he followed his father back.

“Hold the canvas, I'll get it loose.” His father said once they'd dragged the canvas under the cat. He nodded and tried his best to hold it in place, looking anywhere but at the mess while at the same time having to deal with the cloud of flies all around him. With a loud grunt his father pulled out the first nail with his bare hands, fuelled solely by rage and the strength of decades of working with iron.
The cat slumped down slightly. The shift in weight disturbed the cadaver enough for the other paw to give in. With the wet snap of cartilage torn from the bone, the cat came loose and dropped onto the canvas. The sound alone was enough to drain Ross's face of any colour left, weakly shaking his head as he tried to avoid looking at all costs. Even his father wasn't left unfazed; he recoiled, then angrily pulled the other nail out causing the cat's severed paw to drop onto the canvas.
“Some degenerate's done this for us to find.” His father said while quickly tossing a corner of the canvas over the dead cat, covering it and gesturing for Ross to do the same. He did, and without the cadaver in the open the flies started to disperse a bit. His father rolled the mess up, and the frantic tapping of a few flies on the inside of the tarp could be heard.
Ross stood up as well, pale and swaying slightly on his legs as he'd done so too fast. A few sparkles darted around the edges of his vision. He held himself up by leaning against a box.
“That were the worst of it, Rossy.” His father patted him on the back, a bit more sympathetic to his woes now he'd pulled through. “We'll clean the rest up once we get rid of this here mess.”
Ross nodded and pushed himself off of the boxes, and he knew he'd prefer even the stench of a hot day outside in a crowded city over that of sickening, mellow rot.
“Ah fer… at least ye got better aim than stomach.” His father remarked when he looked down the hatch and realised he'd have to avoid the mess he'd made as well. “Shoulda known, ye were a right mess as a babe too, ye've just gotten larger.”
Unable to bring much against that, Ross nodded apologetically again as his father tossed the tarp down and then lowered himself cautiously to avoid the rungs that were hit worst. He followed, and at that point he felt nothing beyond a weird mixture of shame, disgust and lingering nausea.

Once the dead cat had been handed off to the rubbish disposal about a mile away further along the South bank of the Thames, Ross and his father returned to clean up the remainder of the mess. Both carried two buckets of clean well water from the public pump a street corner away back with them.
With a heavy grunt, Ross put down his two buckets on the counter in the tiny kitchen that seemed to have been little more than an afterthought that was attached once the main house had already been built. He rubbed his hands slightly to get the red indents from carrying the buckets all the way back out of his skin.
“Why'd someone do such a thing?” Ross asked not sure if he was coming to terms with it himself or if he genuinely wanted to know. Meanwhile his father added some cheap soap to the buckets.
“Ye'll be damned if I know. Could've been the last owner gone mad, or some kids that broke in before.”
“And killed a cat in the attic without taking a thing?”
“Donnae go and think too much about it, people that sick in the head donnae think much either when they do this shite.”
Ross reluctantly nodded and cleant his hands in one of the buckets.
“Ye'll clean your mess upstairs first, then we'll do the attic.” His father said, handing him a hard bristled broom. He sighed and agreed, not looking forward to it at all but well aware that he was responsible.

He'd thrown the water out over the floor first, trying to wash the mess down the stairs so it could be swept away onto the streets. It had worked quite well, but there was still a bit on the ladder he needed to wash off. A bit uncertain he looked up.
“I think I'll go and run the water over the ladder.” He said, moreso thinking out loud than asking anything from his father, who just nodded and took the broom he handed over.
With one bucket in his hand he clumb up the ladder. Once there he set the bucket down securely on the edge. His eyes weren't used to the darkness of the attic, but it was a more pleasant dim than the headache inducing sunlight out on the street. He knelt down besides the hatch.
“Watch out!” He hollered down the hatch so he wouldn't catch his father on accident. An affirmative grunt told him to go ahead. Carefully he aimed the water for the rungs, watching it waterfall down and wash away the remained of the mess. A bit of the soapy water hit the railing of the stairs, splashing down even further into the ground floor hallway.
“That should do for now.” He stated, quite content that there was some improvement in the situation.
“Aye, we'll do the upstairs then.” His father said, as he appeared under the hatch with the broom and a full bucket of water. Ross took both and set the bucket down on the edge, only to notice a few black stains from the corner of his eye now he gradually got used to the dim light. Surprised he followed the dark stains around the corner.

Bare footsteps had been imprinted on the floor in the decaying blood. He felt his breath stall at the sight. Wide eyed he stared down, unable to move as he was consumed by the realisation that someone had been here. The steps across his ceiling, the dead cat, the breaths. The entire time someone had hid in his attic, only yards away from him at most.
In the distance he heard his father's voice call his name, but it had no priority, barely registering at all as the frightening realisation muted his mind. He felt pale, his breaths racking up against his chest. I could've been that cat… is it a warning? Do they want to kill me? Fuck… oh fuck… 

“Ross!” The loud voice and a push against his shoulder made him jump in fear. He tried to reply, but nearly choked on his words. Instead all he could do was point out the footsteps with trembling hands. His father too remained quiet for a moment, staggered by the sight.
“What the…”
“I wasn't lying… someone's here… someone…” He stammered between frightened breaths, weakly shaking his head.
“Focking,- come on, we'll fetch someone.” His father put an arm around his shoulder, trying to pull him away from the sight.
“They were here all night…” He said softly, unable to come to terms with that knowledge.
“Aye Rossy, now come on.” His father tugged a little harder, but he barely responded. “Finnleigh! Ye can shit yerself later.” A firm pull on both his shoulders forced him to look at his father as he loudly stated his birth name to get through to him. It took him out of his stupor, at least enough to follow his father downstairs so they could devise a way to deal with the situation.