A Light in the Attic at Midnight

Title: A Light in the Attic at Midnight

Every small town has its legends. In Evermere, the Wilkins House stood at the heart of every whispered tale. Deserted for over three decades, the rotting Victorian mansion on the hill loomed like a corpse among the living. Kids dared each other to get close, teens carved initials into its flaking porch, and the older folks warned everyone to stay away. But the most chilling thing? Every midnight, a light flickered to life in the attic.

Mara Jensen had grown up hearing these stories. Her grandmother used to say the house was cursed, a gateway for those who went missing. But Mara wasn’t a kid anymore. At seventeen, she had a skeptical mind and a taste for the thrilling. So, when her best friend Zoe challenged her to spend just one hour inside the Wilkins House, Mara didn’t hesitate. With her phone, a backup flashlight, and her stubborn courage, she crossed the threshold at 11:45 PM.

The smell hit her first: damp wood and rot, mingled with something metallic. Blood? No, that was just her imagination running wild. Her phone’s beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating peeling wallpaper and shattered picture frames. The silence was thick, broken only by the groan of the floorboards beneath her boots.

At 12:01 AM, the light upstairs flickered on.

Mara's breath hitched. It was real. She swallowed hard and made her way to the staircase, the creaking steps protesting every inch. Her heart pounded like a war drum as she reached the landing. The attic door, an ancient slab of wood, stood slightly ajar, the light spilling out in sickly yellow tendrils.

Pushing the door wider, she stepped inside—and froze.

The attic was lined with hundreds of photographs, each nailed to the wooden beams. Faces stared back at her: children, teenagers, even adults. Some were smiling, others looked terrified. And in the center of the room, beneath the swaying lightbulb, an old rocking chair moved back and forth. Empty. Or so she thought.

From the shadows, a figure emerged. A woman, her skin pale and stretched tight over bone, eyes hollow voids. She smiled, revealing cracked and yellowed teeth.

"Another one for the collection," the woman rasped.

Mara stumbled back, her phone slipping from her hand and clattering to the floor. The woman moved closer, her steps making no sound. The photos on the walls began to flutter as though stirred by an unseen wind. Mara turned to flee, but the attic door slammed shut. She pounded on it, screaming, but the house swallowed her cries.

Outside, the light flickered once, twice—and then went out.

Morning came, and the town awoke to another missing poster tacked onto the bulletin board in front of City Hall. Mara Jensen: last seen near Wilkins House.

Her parents searched. Zoe confessed the dare with tears streaming down her face. But no one found a trace of her.

And that night, at exactly midnight, the attic light turned on again.

Zoe couldn’t sleep. The guilt gnawed at her like termites in her chest. She'd known it was a bad idea, but she had pushed Mara into it anyway. The police had questioned everyone, but they weren’t going near that house—not after all the disappearances over the years.

But Zoe couldn’t just sit back. She had to know.

At 11:30 the next night, she found herself at the gates of the Wilkins House, flashlight gripped so tight her knuckles turned white. She muttered a prayer under her breath and stepped inside.

The air was colder this time. The darkness felt alive, pressing against her skin. She called out, "Mara?"

No answer.

At midnight, the attic light turned on.

Zoe's legs trembled, but she forced herself to climb the stairs. As she reached the attic, the door opened wider on its own, creaking like a dying animal. Inside, the photos were still there—only now, there was a new one. Mara's face, eyes wide and lips parted in a silent scream.

The rocking chair moved. The woman was waiting.

"You're early," the figure whispered. "But there's always room for more."

Zoe turned and ran, but the hallway stretched endlessly before her. The walls rippled like liquid, and the house groaned as though it were breathing. Her flashlight flickered, then died. In the suffocating dark, she could hear footsteps behind her—slow, deliberate.

She never made it out.

By the third night, Evermere was in a panic. Two teenagers gone, just like the others before them. Some folks began whispering about calling in a priest, while others said to burn the house to the ground. But no one acted. Fear had paralyzed the town.

But old Mr. Holloway, the town librarian, knew more than he let on.

In his dusty back office, he pulled out the old records. The Wilkins family had once been the pride of Evermere—wealthy, influential. But tragedy struck when Eleanor Wilkins, the matriarch, lost her three children in a mysterious fire. Grief drove her mad, and she began abducting local children, believing she could replace what she'd lost.

When the townsfolk discovered her crimes, they stormed the house. Eleanor was never found, but the disappearances continued even after the house was abandoned. Some claimed her spirit still roamed the attic, trapping souls to keep her company.

Mr. Holloway shivered and whispered, "She’s still feeding."

The following week, an amateur ghost-hunting group arrived in Evermere. Drawn by the rumors, they set up cameras and equipment around the Wilkins House. They laughed off the warnings, eager for viral footage.

At midnight, their livestream showed the attic light flaring bright before cutting out entirely. The feed went dark, and none of the five investigators were ever seen again. Their abandoned van sat at the curb for days before the town quietly towed it away.

By now, Evermere had accepted the house as a curse they couldn't lift. Parents forbade their children from going near the hill. City officials debated fencing it off, but no one wanted the job. The house stood, watching, waiting.

More faces appeared in the attic photographs. Hikers, drifters, and the occasional thrill-seeker drawn by dark curiosity. The light continued to glow every midnight, without fail.

And those who listened carefully claimed they could hear voices whispering—Mara, Zoe, and countless others, begging for help they would never receive.

Conclusion:

Decades have passed, but the Wilkins House remains. Its legend grows with every vanished soul. People still talk about it in hushed tones, warning newcomers and daring each other with nervous laughs. But deep down, they all know the truth: the light in the attic is not a warning—it’s a lure.

And every midnight, it flickers on, waiting for the next curious soul to step inside.

Some doors are better left unopened.