Don't go in the Attic

Don't Go in the Attic

Chapter One: The Sisters

Glenda Brady was the kind of woman who wore diamonds to breakfast and tantrums to dinner. She had never been told “no” without retaliation. Her older sister Carmen, by contrast, preferred the quiet hum of soil and sun. While Glenda chased champagne and silk, Carmen nurtured tomatoes and silence.

Their grandfather, James Brady, had died two weeks ago. A man of mystery and moss, he’d spent his final years tucked away in his farmhouse, surrounded by dense forest and secrets. The sisters hadn’t spoken in months, but the will reading brought them together.

Linus Shumble, James’s lawyer, was a slight man with balding patches and coke-bottle glasses that magnified his anxiety. He sat behind his desk like a mouse before a hawk, especially when Glenda entered the room in stilettos and fury.

“I want everything,” she snapped, before Linus could even clear his throat.

Linus flinched. “The will… it’s complicated.”

Carmen sat quietly, hands folded in her lap.

Linus adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Brady left the property to both of you. But there are conditions.”

Glenda leaned forward. “What kind of conditions?”

“No one is to enter the property for seven days,” Linus said, voice trembling. “And… no one is permitted in the attic. Under any circumstances.”

Glenda’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Linus hesitated. “It’s… for your safety.”

Glenda scoffed. “You think I’m scared of dust and cobwebs?”

“I’m serious,” Linus whispered. “The attic is locked. Leave it that way.”

Glenda stood abruptly, knocking over a paperweight. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

Carmen glanced at Linus, who looked pale and defeated.

Chapter Two: The Forbidden House

That night, Glenda drove to the farmhouse in her cherry-red convertible, headlights slicing through the fog. The forest loomed like a warning, branches clawing at the sky.

She parked beside the porch and strutted up the steps, heels clicking like gunshots. The house was dark, silent. Her grandfather’s presence lingered like smoke.

Inside, the air was stale. Furniture covered in sheets. Dust motes danced in her flashlight beam. She made her way to the attic door, heart pounding—not with fear, but entitlement.

Locked.

“Seriously?” she muttered.

She rummaged through the shed and found a crowbar. With a grunt, she pried the lock open. The door creaked, revealing a narrow staircase cloaked in shadows.

She climbed.

The attic was dimly lit by a single bulb swinging from the ceiling. Boxes, trunks, and shelves lined the walls. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and something else—something sour.

She began rifling through the boxes.

“Old junk,” she muttered. “Where’s the good stuff?”

A soft sound echoed behind her.

She froze.

It was faint. Like… whispering? No. Screaming. Soft, distant, almost childlike.

She turned slowly. “Hello?”

Nothing.

She kept digging. Jewelry boxes, faded photographs, antique tools. Nothing of value.

Then she saw it—a rickety shelf pressed against the far wall. Behind it, something glinted.

She approached, crowbar in hand. As she tugged the shelf, it collapsed with a crash, sending dust and splinters flying.

Behind it was a door. Small, wooden, padlocked.

Her pulse quickened.

She jammed the crowbar into the lock and pried. It snapped open.

She stepped inside.

Chapter Three: The Spider

The room was colder. The walls pulsed with a strange dampness. Shelves lined with jars—preserved insects, bones, feathers. A desk covered in notes. And in the center, a massive web stretched across the rafters like a cathedral of silk.

She stepped closer.

A soft scurrying echoed above.

She looked up.

Two glistening black eyes stared down at her.

She screamed.

The spider dropped.

It was massive—legs like branches, body the size of a dog. Its fangs gleamed, dripping with venom. Glenda swung the crowbar, but it caught her wrist mid-air.

She shrieked as it wrapped her in silk, binding her limbs, muffling her cries. The web cocoon tightened, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

Her last thought wasn’t fear.

It was rage.

The spider lifted her, cocoon and all, and slipped through the attic door. Down the stairs. Through the house. Out into the forest.

The trees swallowed them whole.

Chapter Four: Seven Days Later

Carmen returned to Linus’s office, dressed in denim and quiet grief.

Linus looked up, startled. “You’re early.”

“I waited,” she said simply.

Linus nodded. “Then it’s yours.”

He handed her the deed. The property. The inheritance.

Carmen blinked. “What about Glenda?”

Linus hesitated. “She… never came back.”

Carmen didn’t ask further.

She took the papers and left.

Chapter Five: The Pencil

Linus sat alone in his office, the sun setting behind him. He twirled a pencil between his fingers, gaze distant.

He remembered the last conversation with James Brady.

“She won’t wait,” James had said, voice gravelly. “She never could.”

Linus had nodded. “You’re sure about this?”

James had smiled. “I found it in the forest. It was small then. But it grew. I kept it locked in the attic. Fed it rats. Chickens. But it wanted more.”

Linus had swallowed hard. “Why not kill it?”

James had looked out the window. “Some things aren’t meant to die. They’re meant to return.”

Linus had understood.

Glenda was bait.

A terrible woman, consumed by greed. What better offering to the forest than her?

Now, Linus leaned back in his chair, pencil still spinning.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees.

And somewhere deep in the forest, the spider waited.