The Thing in the Attic

Mia never liked the attic. Even as a child, she felt uneasy around it. The narrow wooden stairs, the creaky old door—it all felt wrong. Her parents used it for storage, never letting her go inside.

Years passed, and after her parents’ death, Mia inherited the house. She moved in alone, telling herself the attic was just another part of the house.

Then the noises started.

At night, she heard it—soft footsteps above her bedroom. Scraping sounds. Sometimes, faint whispers.

"Just the wind," she told herself.

One night, she finally decided to check. Armed with a flashlight, she climbed the attic stairs. The air smelled of dust and something else—something rotten.

The wooden floor creaked under her steps. Boxes sat untouched, covered in cobwebs.

But something was wrong.

In the farthest corner, a small wooden door was built into the attic wall. She had never seen it before.

A cold chill ran down her spine.

The door was slightly open.

She hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back.

Then, the whisper came.

"Mia... help me."

Her breath caught in her throat. The voice was weak, desperate—familiar.

It sounded like her mother.

Hands shaking, she reached for the door. It creaked as it swung open, revealing pure darkness.

She shone her flashlight inside.

A pair of pale hands reached out.

Mia stumbled back, heart pounding.

Then, the figure crawled out.

It was her mother. Or at least… something that looked like her. Her skin was too stretched, her eyes too dark, her mouth too wide.

"You left me here," it whispered, tilting its head.

Mia screamed.

She turned to run, but the attic door slammed shut. The whispers grew louder, turning into laughter—low, echoing.

She pounded on the door. "Let me out!"

The voice behind her chuckled.

"You opened the door. Now you stay."

The next morning, the attic was silent.

But when a neighbor came looking for Mia, they found the attic door locked.

And from behind it, soft scratching sounds.

Waiting.

For someone else to listen.