The Window That Shouldn’t Exist — What I Found Inside My Grandmother’s Attic Changed Everything

She Left Me the House — and a Question

When my grandmother passed away, I inherited her creaky, ivy-covered house in upstate New York. She had lived there for 53 years — a widow for most of them, a mystery to even her closest neighbours.

I was her only grandchild. She left me no note, no will, no explanation. Just the house.

The first two days were uneventful. Cobwebs. Faded floral wallpaper. Her favourite tea cups still in the cupboard.

But on the third day, I went up to the attic. That’s when everything changed.

The Window That Wasn’t on the Outside

Here’s the weird part: I’d seen the house from every angle. I’d even taken photos of it when I first arrived. There was no window on the side where this attic opening existed.

I pulled the quilt down, revealing cracked wooden framing. The window was painted shut — but not sealed. I pried it open.

It didn’t show outside.

Instead… it looked into a small hidden room.

My heart stopped.

Behind the glass was a dimly lit space, maybe six feet wide, lined with books, an old rocking chair, and something that looked like... a crib.

But there was no door to access this room from inside the house.

None.

I Had to Break Through

I spent that night researching old blueprints of the house. Nothing showed a secret room. Nothing at all.

By the next morning, I’d decided: I was going in.

Using a crowbar from the shed, I peeled off the back paneling of the attic wall. The wood gave way easier than expected — like someone once used it often, and then sealed it shut again.

Inside, the air was thick. Like time had stopped.

The crib was covered in a thick layer of dust. But what truly froze me was the name “Lena” carved into the rocking chair. That wasn’t my grandmother’s name. It wasn’t anyone in our family — as far as I knew.

Then I found it — a small, rusted tin box under the floorboard. Inside were photos. Black-and-white images of a woman holding a baby. A man whose face was scratched out with a pen. And a letter.

The Letter I Still Can’t Explain

The letter was dated 1952. It read:

“If you’re reading this… it means I couldn’t protect her.

His name was never to be spoken. Lena is not to be remembered in this house. But she will always be near.

Please forgive me.”

There was no signature.

The hairs on my arms stood up.

Who was Lena? Why was she hidden — in a literal hidden room — in my grandmother’s house? Was she family? Was she... my mother’s sister?

I never met my mother — she died when I was a baby.

And Then the Rocking Chair Moved

I swear I didn’t imagine it.

As I stood there, holding the photos and letter, the rocking chair creaked once — a slow, deliberate sway forward.

There was no wind. No draft. No vibration from outside.

I backed away, heart racing, chest tight.

And then I heard it:

A faint lullaby.

Coming from nowhere... and everywhere.

The sound grew louder as I stepped back toward the opening I’d broken through in the attic wall. My legs felt heavy, like the air had thickened around me. I wanted to believe it was stress, or maybe my imagination playing tricks — but the atmosphere was undeniable. Something was different.

I stood at the threshold between the attic and this hidden space, heart hammering in my chest, eyes locked on the chair. It had stopped moving. Everything was still.

And then I noticed something else.

There was dust on the floor, yes — but one clear trail of bare footprints, leading from the crib to the chair and stopping there. They were small, like a child's. No matching adult prints. Just... those.

Suddenly, the lullaby cut off.

Dead silence.

That’s when the overhead light in the attic flickered — once, twice — and then popped, plunging everything into shadows. I stumbled backward, nearly falling over the broken panelling. Grabbing my phone, I turned on the flashlight. The beam shook with my hands, but I aimed it toward the rocking chair.

It was empty.

But the crib?

The blanket inside was rumpled, like someone had just climbed out.

I Left the House That Night

I didn’t grab anything. Not my bag, not my charger, not even the letter.

I locked the door behind me and sat in my car for hours, staring at the house.

I kept asking myself: Who was Lena? Why was she hidden here — literally locked away in a room behind a wall? Why did no one in the family ever speak of her?

And the most terrifying question of all:

Was she still there?

Not alive. But something worse — something that lingered.

Something unfinished.

One Week Later, I Got a Letter

It was unsigned. No return address. Just my name, handwritten.

Inside was a newspaper clipping from 1953. Headline:

“Infant Girl Presumed Dead After Disappearance – Body Never Found.”

The article told the story of a baby named Lena who vanished from her home one stormy night. The father claimed she’d been kidnapped. The mother was later admitted to a mental institution and died five years later.

The house in the article?

My grandmother’s address.

I haven’t been back since.

But sometimes, just before I fall asleep, I swear I hear that same lullaby — faintly, from somewhere behind the walls.