The Door Beneath the Attic

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Clara had heard the warnings since she was a child, whispered in hushed tones as the wind howled outside. The door in her grandmother’s attic was an ancient relic, its wood darkened with age, adorned with iron hinges that seemed to breathe in the shadows.

Curiosity gnawed at Clara like a persistent rat. She often imagined what lay beyond that door—treasures, secrets, perhaps the very ghosts of her ancestors. Her grandmother’s stern voice echoed in her mind, but it grew fainter with each passing year, leaving only the lure of the forbidden.

One stormy night, the wind screamed outside, rattling the windows and drawing her closer to the attic. The door loomed, heavy and foreboding. She placed her hand on the knob, feeling an electric pulse race through her fingertips. For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Then the thunder crashed, and the urge to know overcame her fear.

With a twist, the door creaked open, releasing a gust of stale air that smelled of dust and decay. The darkness beyond was thick, swirling like a living entity. Clara stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind her with a finality that chilled her to the bone.

The darkness whispered her name, a chorus of voices she recognized yet didn’t. Her heart raced as shadows coalesced, and she realized—too late—that the tales had been true. The rule had been for her protection, and now, she was trapped among those who had opened the door before her.