It started with the door.
Not slamming, not creaking—just opening.
I was eight years old the first time I noticed it. Every night, I’d close the attic door tight, latch it, and go to bed. Every morning, it was open. Just a crack. Nothing too dramatic—just enough to make my skin crawl.
We lived in a creaky old house at the edge of Elder Hollow, the kind of place people drive past and whisper stories about. My room was in the attic. My dad called it “cozy.” I called it “lonely.” The sloped ceilings and round window that looked straight into the woods didn’t help. The silence didn’t help.
And then, the door started unclosing itself.
---
The Night It Spoke
I wasn’t afraid at first. I thought maybe it was the wind or a draft. But one night, I decided to stay up and watch. Just past two in the morning, I heard it:
click.
The latch lifted.
The door opened slowly—smoothly, like someone careful not to wake me.
But no one came in.
Just the cold.
I tried to stay calm, convincing myself it was nothing. That is, until the next night, when I blocked the door with a pile of books—and they moved. At exactly 2:17 a.m., the stack scraped aside.
And that’s when I heard it.
“Can I come in?”
---
The Ghost with the Broken Voice
It wasn’t threatening. The voice was small, fragile. Like a kid who’d been crying too long. I grabbed my flashlight and pointed it at the door.
Nothing.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
Silence.
Then came the cold again. And I saw… something. A shimmer, like moonlight made of mist. Slowly, it took shape.
A boy. Maybe my age. Pale, quiet, watching me from the threshold.
I couldn’t run. I couldn’t scream. I just stared back.
He didn’t move. Didn’t float or vanish.
He whispered, “My name was Simon.”
---
He Was Always Careful
Simon became a regular in my attic. I never saw him during the day, only after midnight. He never tried to scare me. In fact, he asked permission to come in. Always.
He never touched my stuff. Never knocked things over. Just sat quietly in the corner, like he was waiting for something.
I asked him why he stayed.
His answer? “I didn’t know I could leave.”
He wasn’t like the ghosts in movies. He didn’t want revenge or attention.
He wanted peace. And maybe… a friend.
---
What Was Hidden in the Wall
One night, Simon told me, “There’s something I left behind. Near the window.”
That window had always creeped me out—it looked straight into the trees, and sometimes I swore the reflection wasn't mine.
Still, I trusted him. When my parents were out, I pulled off a wooden panel near the window. Behind it, wrapped in faded cloth, was a box.
Inside:
A tiny porcelain owl
A torn photo of a boy—Simon
And a paper that read: “Tell Mama I didn’t mean to go. I was just cold.”
---
Connecting the Past
I showed the photo to my mom.
She went pale.
“That’s… oh my god. That’s the boy who used to live here. There was a fire. His family escaped, but… he didn’t make it.”
It was the first time my mom believed me. And honestly, I wished she hadn’t. Something about hearing it confirmed in an adult voice made it all feel… too real.
That night, Simon came again.
He stared at the owl in my hand and smiled.
“I was hiding,” he said. “When the fire came. I thought if I closed the door, the smoke wouldn’t find me.”
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw tears in a ghost’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean to stay,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to leave.”
---
The Final Goodbye
I asked, “Are you ready now?”
Simon nodded.
He didn’t ask to come in this time. He just stood in the doorway, waiting.
So I walked over, opened the door wide, and said, “You don’t have to ask anymore.”
He gave me one last smile.
And then he was gone.
No dramatic fade-out. No lights flickering.
Just… gone.
---
After Simon
Life went back to normal. Mostly.
My attic felt lighter. Warmer. Even the shadows seemed softer. My dog, who used to bark at the attic door, finally came upstairs again. My sister stopped pointing to the window and saying, “The sad boy.”
But I still keep the little owl on my bookshelf.
A reminder that not all ghosts are monsters. Some are just kids—lost, scared, and waiting for someone to finally open the door.
---
Final Thoughts
I think about Simon sometimes. About how many others like him might still be hiding behind closed doors, waiting for someone who will listen.
We often fear the unknown. But what if the unknown is just… lonely?
About the Creator
Hasbanullah
I write to awaken hearts, honor untold stories, and give voice to silence. From truth to fiction, every word I share is a step toward deeper connection. Welcome to my world of meaningful storytelling.
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