The Attic Whispers

Megan had always wanted a quiet place to write. So when she stumbled upon a hundred-year-old Victorian house for rent just outside of Raven Hollow, she jumped at the opportunity. The house was beautiful in a haunting kind of way—tall windows, ornate wooden trims, creaky floorboards. It was the kind of place that seemed to remember everything.

“I just need peace,” she told the realtor. “Somewhere with no distractions.”

The woman gave her a strange, hesitant look. “You’ll have plenty of that out here,” she said. “But some places… carry memories.”

Megan brushed it off. Writers thrive on atmosphere, she told herself. And this place had plenty of that.

The first few days were perfect. Megan spent her mornings writing by the fireplace and her afternoons wandering the surrounding woods, collecting ideas in a worn leather journal. The house, though drafty and dimly lit, felt full of forgotten stories just waiting to be discovered.

Until the third night.

She was lying in bed when she first heard it—a faint shuffling sound above her ceiling. Slow, deliberate. Almost like dragging feet. She sat up, pulse quickening.

“Probably squirrels in the attic,” she whispered, forcing herself to relax.

But the next night, it returned—closer, clearer. Not the frantic skittering of rodents. No, this was slower. Rhythmic. Human.

She grabbed a flashlight and climbed the narrow staircase to the attic. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the silence. The attic door groaned open. Dust motes danced in the beam of light. Boxes stacked neatly. Covered furniture. An old rocking horse in the corner.

Nothing moved.

The air smelled musty, layered with age and something faintly metallic.

She turned to leave—then the flashlight flickered.

When the beam steadied, one of the boxes had fallen over.

She hadn’t touched it.

That night, she barely slept.

The next morning, after her fourth cup of coffee, she called the landlord. “Has anyone ever complained about strange sounds in the attic?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Too long.

“No one’s stayed in that house very long,” the landlord said finally. “They always leave.”

“Why?”

“Some say it’s haunted. Others say it’s just old and… temperamental. Depends on what you believe.”

That night, Megan set up her phone to record while she slept. She left it facing the ceiling and pressed “record.”

In the morning, she watched the footage.

Hours of nothing. Then, at 3:11 a.m.—creaking. Dragging. Breathing.

Then a whisper.

A low, gravelly voice: “Why did you open the door?”

She dropped the phone.

That afternoon, she took a hammer and nailed the attic door shut. She shoved a heavy chair in front of it for good measure.

But things got worse.

Books fell off shelves for no reason. Her laptop would flicker on in the middle of the night, screen glowing blankly. Doors opened on their own. Her reflection in the hallway mirror seemed… slower than her. Off.

She stopped writing. Stopped eating. Stopped sleeping.

Desperate for answers, she climbed back into the attic one stormy evening, despite everything in her gut screaming not to.

She opened one of the old boxes. Inside were dozens of black-and-white photographs. All of the same little girl—pale, unsmiling, standing in that very attic. In each photo, the shadows around her grew darker. In the last image, the girl was gone. The attic was empty.

On the back of the photo: “Don’t let her out.”

Megan backed away. The attic door slammed shut behind her. The bulb above her head buzzed and went out.

In the pitch black, she heard the same whisper, closer now:

“You opened it. You let her out.”

She screamed. No one heard. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away, and the wind carried her cries into the trees.

She fled the next morning.

As she loaded her car, she glanced back at the house. The attic window was open.

A little girl stood there.

White dress. Hollow black eyes.

Watching.

Megan never returned.

The house now stands empty. Locals say you can see her—the girl—peering from the attic window at night, or hear footsteps overhead if you’re ever brave (or foolish) enough to step inside.

Every tenant leaves by the third week. Some say it’s cold drafts and faulty wiring. Others say they feel something watching them. But everyone agrees on one thing:

At 3:11 a.m., every single night—something walks.

And the whisper comes again:

“You opened it... You let her out…”