“This tower is 700 years old,” said Uncle Atticus. “The house came later.”
Lotta trailed behind. The incessant winding left her dizzy. Added to that, his tower smelt bad. Bat droppings. Damp. An unidentified animal smell that seeped beneath the doors on every landing.
“Nearly there -” he wheezed, pushing open the uppermost door.
Midnight air wafted in.
Breathing deeply, Lotta stepped up to the parapet. She could see black upon blackness, shadow and silhouette like her bedroom after dark.
“Off you go then,” he said.
Lotta toppled into night.
“Don’t forget this!”
He tossed her the broom.
This story was written for the Friday Fictioneers. See the other stories here on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site.