Echoes in the Attic

The Dempsey House stood at the edge of a forgotten road in Vermont, its paint peeling, windows boarded, and the wind whispering through its eaves like a memory refusing to die. It had been abandoned for decades—until tonight.

Emma Dempsey, 29, the last surviving member of the Dempsey bloodline, stepped onto the decaying porch. In her coat pocket was a brass skeleton key, left behind by her late grandmother, along with a cryptic note that read: “The truth is in the attic. Set her free.”

The key turned with a loud click. The door creaked open into stale darkness. Emma clicked on her flashlight. Dust danced in the beam. Floorboards groaned beneath her steps. The air felt heavy, like the house was breathing.

She paused in the hallway, staring at an old family portrait. One face—the woman in the center—looked disturbingly like her. The resemblance chilled her. She moved on.

At the end of the hallway, she found it—the attic door. She turned the key again. It resisted. Then clicked. The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase that led into blackness.

Emma climbed slowly. The attic smelled like old books and mothballs. A flashlight sweep revealed old furniture covered in sheets, trunks, porcelain dolls missing eyes… and a full-length mirror, its surface cracked like a spider web.

Then she saw it.

A photograph resting on a dusty chest. It showed a woman in Victorian dress standing in this very attic. Her face was identical to Emma’s.

Chills ran up her spine.

A sudden thud behind her. She whirled around. Nothing. Her flashlight flickered. She turned back toward the mirror—and froze.

In the reflection, someone stood behind her. Pale. Thin. Hollow eyes.

Emma spun around. Nothing there.

Then a whisper: “Help me…”

She followed the voice to a half-open trunk. Inside were diaries, yellowed with age. She flipped one open. The name on the first page read: Catherine Dempsey, 1892.

Catherine's entries became more frantic with each page:

“I see him in the mirror.”

“He doesn’t live here. He’s trapped here.”

“He wants someone to take my place.”

“I can’t run anymore.”

Then, the final line:

“Only she can end this. The mirror must break.”

Another noise. Emma turned. The mirror was glowing faintly. Her reflection... was moving differently than she was. And behind it—Catherine.

Catherine’s eyes locked onto hers.

Suddenly, the attic door slammed shut. The flashlight blinked out. Emma gasped.

She grabbed the brass key from her pocket. It seemed to hum in her hand. Stepping toward the mirror, she saw a small keyhole carved into the frame.

Without thinking, she inserted the key. The mirror vibrated. Cracks spread wider. Then—BOOM!—the glass exploded inward like water rippling. A cold wind blasted from the mirror.

From within, Catherine’s ghostly figure emerged, eyes filled with tears.

“Set me free…” she whispered.

Emma reached out. Their fingers touched. A blinding light enveloped the room. The air turned warm. The sound of the wind stopped.

When Emma opened her eyes, the attic was silent. The mirror lay shattered on the floor. The air felt… clean. Free.

Catherine was gone.

Emma gathered the diaries and photographs, descended the stairs, and stepped out onto the porch. Dawn had just begun. The sky glowed soft orange.

On the porch sat the old trunk, its lid open—but empty.

Emma turned to look at the house one last time. A single photograph fluttered out of her hand. It showed Catherine standing in sunlight, finally smiling.

Emma whispered, “Rest now.”

Behind her, the wind rustled gently, like a woman’s sigh.