Shadows in the Attic

The attic door was never supposed to open. At least, not on its own.

Oliver had lived in the old townhouse for three years, and in that time, he had never set foot inside the attic. The realtor mentioned something about the previous owner sealing it off, a detail Oliver had dismissed as unimportant. Until now.

He had been dozing off on the couch when the creak echoed through the silent house. His eyes snapped open, heart hammering against his ribs. He sat up slowly, listening.

Another creak. Then another.

The sound came from above.

Oliver grabbed the flashlight from the side table and walked toward the hallway, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He tilted his head back. The attic door, once tightly shut, now gaped open just an inch. Just enough for something to slip through.

A draft slithered down from the darkness above. Cold, unnatural.

He hesitated. His logical mind screamed to turn away, to ignore it, to leave the mystery untouched. But curiosity was a cruel master. He reached up, gripping the attic pull cord, and yanked.

The stairs unfolded with a groan. The darkness above yawned wider.

Oliver swallowed hard and ascended.

The attic was still, thick with dust and the scent of time long forgotten. His flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating stacks of boxes, a rocking chair frozen mid-motion, and—

A figure in the corner.

His breath hitched. The beam trembled in his grip. The figure stood unmoving, but Oliver’s gut screamed that it had been watching him long before he arrived.

Then it twitched.

The attic door slammed shut behind him.

And the shadows moved.