The disco ball was turning. That was the first indication that something was wrong. That disco ball hadn't moved since 1982, when his brother put it up in his parent's attic to make room for his Tattoo You poster. The disco ball had hung for 30 years from a four-by-four, good solid wood. ("That wood ain't going anywhere, his dad once told him. That's old country wood, original American oak. Before all this," and let a wave of his hand tell the rest.)
He was up there in the attic when the disco ball turned, revealing it's multi-faced mirrored squares, each reflecting his growing terror like an old cinescope machine.
Now the disco ball was spinning, and Cheap Trick records and Barry Manalow 8-Track tapes were rumbling from their saw-dusted milk crates. He watched the ball, and he watched that old beam it was attached to.
Downstairs, his parents screamed at the terror of it all. He fell back onto his butt and just sort of watched his whole past come alive up in that attic for one more time. Three decades of evidence of their lives, poltergeisting around the room.
Outside, honking horns.
And then the beam split.