Christmas in the Attic

The Barlow family—Henry, Margaret, and their twelve-year-old daughter, Emily—had just moved into an old Victorian house on the outskirts of town. The home was charming but needed work, and as Christmas approached, they decided to decorate the house to bring it to life.

“Let’s make this a Christmas to remember,” Margaret said, stringing lights around the banister.

Emily wandered upstairs, eager to explore the attic. She had always been fascinated by old, forgotten things, and she hoped to find decorations from the house’s previous owners. She climbed the creaky stairs and pushed open the heavy door. The attic smelled of dust and mildew, its dim light filtering through a small window.

Boxes were piled high, some labeled with faded handwriting. Emily’s eyes fell on one in particular: a large, dusty chest tucked into the corner. Unlike the others, it had no label and was secured with an old, rusty latch. Her curiosity piqued, she called down to her parents.

“Mom! Dad! There’s a big box up here. Can we open it?”

Henry and Margaret climbed up to join her. The three of them gathered around the chest, their breath visible in the chilly attic air.

“It’s probably just old junk,” Henry said, though he couldn’t hide his own curiosity.

Margaret brushed off the dust, and Henry pried the latch open with a screwdriver. The lid creaked as it was lifted, revealing an assortment of items: faded ornaments, a porcelain angel with a cracked wing, and a worn music box. At the bottom of the chest was a leather-bound book, its cover embossed with strange symbols.

“What’s this?” Emily asked, reaching for the book.

“Careful,” Margaret warned. “It looks fragile.”

Emily opened the book to find pages filled with handwritten text in a language she didn’t recognize. Strange illustrations of shadowy figures and ominous landscapes filled the margins. A chill ran down her spine, but she shrugged it off as excitement.

“Maybe it’s an old storybook,” she said, handing it to her father.

Henry frowned. “I don’t think so. These symbols… they’re not like anything I’ve ever seen.”

As he flipped through the pages, the temperature in the attic seemed to drop. The air grew heavy, and a faint, echoing whisper filled the space. Margaret rubbed her arms, trying to shake off the sudden chill.

“Let’s bring this stuff downstairs,” she suggested. “It’s freezing up here.”

Back in the warmth of the living room, the family examined their finds. Emily wound up the music box, which played a haunting melody. The tune was both beautiful and unsettling, and as it played, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen.

“That’s enough of that,” Margaret said, closing the lid. She turned her attention to the ornaments and began hanging them on the tree. Henry placed the porcelain angel on the mantle, and Emily sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through the strange book.

That night, Emily couldn’t sleep. The melody from the music box replayed in her mind, and the whispers from the attic seemed to follow her. She tossed and turned, finally sitting up in bed. The house was silent, but something felt off. A faint light glowed under her door.

“Mom? Dad?” she called, but there was no answer.

She slipped out of bed and crept down the hall. The light was coming from the living room. As she descended the stairs, she saw the music box sitting on the coffee table, its lid open and the melody playing softly. The air felt thick, and the shadows seemed to writhe like living things.

“Hello?” Emily whispered.

The music stopped abruptly. The silence was deafening, and then she heard it—a low, guttural growl coming from the corner of the room. She turned slowly, her heart pounding. A shadowy figure stood by the mantle, its form indistinct but undeniably menacing. Its head turned toward her, and though it had no eyes, she felt its gaze pierce her.

Emily screamed and bolted upstairs, slamming her door shut. She heard her parents’ footsteps moments later.

“What happened?” Henry asked, throwing the door open.

“There’s something downstairs!” Emily cried. “A shadow… it moved!”

Henry and Margaret exchanged uneasy glances. Henry grabbed a flashlight and went to investigate while Margaret stayed with Emily. When he returned, he looked pale.

“The music box was open,” he said, “but there was nothing else there.”

Margaret hugged Emily tightly. “It’s just the stress of the move,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

The next day, the family tried to shake off the eerie events. They spent the afternoon baking cookies and wrapping gifts, but the unease lingered. Emily avoided the living room, but the whispers seemed to follow her wherever she went.

That evening, as they sat down for dinner, the lights flickered. The porcelain angel toppled from the mantle, shattering on the floor.

“Enough is enough,” Henry said. “I’m taking that chest and everything in it back to the attic.”

He gathered the items and carried them upstairs, but as he reached the attic door, it slammed shut in his face. The house groaned, and the air grew icy. Henry forced the door open and threw the chest inside, slamming it shut behind him. As he descended the stairs, he swore he heard laughter—low and mocking.

That night, the family was jolted awake by a loud crash. They rushed to the living room to find the Christmas tree toppled, its ornaments shattered. The music box sat in the center of the room, playing its haunting melody. The strange book lay open beside it, its pages flipping as if caught in a wind no one could feel.

The shadowy figure emerged again, this time larger and more defined. It loomed over the family, its presence suffocating. Emily clutched her mother’s hand, tears streaming down her face.

“What do you want?” Henry demanded, his voice shaking.

The figure pointed to the book. Margaret hesitated, then picked it up. The symbols on the pages seemed to glow, and she felt an inexplicable pull to read them aloud.

“Don’t,” Henry warned, but it was too late. Margaret began to chant the strange words, her voice trembling. The room shook, and the figure let out an ear-piercing scream before collapsing into a swirl of darkness that was sucked into the book. The pages snapped shut, and the house fell silent.

The next morning, the family burned the book and the music box in the fireplace. As the flames consumed them, the oppressive atmosphere lifted, and the house felt warm and inviting for the first time.

“Do you think it’s over?” Emily asked.

“I think so,” Margaret said, though she couldn’t be sure.

As the family sat together, enjoying a peaceful Christmas morning, none of them noticed the faint melody that drifted through the house—a haunting tune that promised the story was far from over.