The Unsent Plea

Arthur hated old houses. Not hated like a strong distaste, but hated like a deep, visceral revulsion. Especially this one. Aunt Mildred’s place. Three generations of dust and neglect, all settled into sagging floorboards and wallpaper peeling like sun-baked skin. He hadn't seen Mildred in twenty years, not since he was a kid and she’d tried to feed him a sandwich she swore had been blessed by a squirrel. So, when the lawyers called, mumbling about an estate and an attic full of "sentimental value," Arthur knew what "sentimental value" really meant: trash. Mountains of it.

He’d spent three days already, sweating in the stale air, sneezing from the settled dust that coated everything. The house had a smell. Not just must, but something deeper, colder. Like wet earth after a hard rain, mixed with old books and something metallic, almost like pennies. He was in what Mildred had called her "thinking room," a small, sunless box at the back of the house that felt perpetually colder than the rest. A single, rickety desk stood against the wall, covered in more dust, more forgotten papers. Tax forms from the seventies, a dried-up pen, a half-eaten petrified apple. He scraped it all into a box, ready for the dumpster.

Then, at the very bottom drawer, tucked beneath a stack of faded photographs of people he didn't recognize, he felt something solid. Not wood, not just paper. He pulled it out. It was a small, heavy wooden box, dark with age, with intricate, almost disturbing carvings of vines and what looked like distorted faces peering out from the leaves. No lock, just a simple brass clasp. His fingers hesitated before he clicked it open. Inside, nestled on a bed of what might have once been dried lavender, now just grey brittle stalks, was a single, thick envelope. Unsealed. Addressed, in a spidery, familiar hand, to "Eleanor."

His aunt's handwriting. No stamp. Never sent. Who was Eleanor? He didn't know anyone by that name in the family. The envelope felt wrong, too heavy for just paper. He weighed it in his hand. It hummed, almost. Or maybe it was just his imagination, the oppressive quiet of the house pressing down. His throat felt dry. He carefully slid out the contents. Not just paper. A folded, multi-page letter, brittle at the edges, and something else wrapped inside the last page. A dark, dried leaf. No, not a leaf. Too thick, too stiff. Like a shard of dried bark, but smooth on one side, almost polished.

He unfolded the letter, the paper crackling like old bones. The first page was almost normal. "Dearest Eleanor," it began. "I know it’s been too long. The spring has been… unusual. The roses aren't blooming right, not like they used to." Then, the handwriting started to change, growing tighter, more frantic. "But that's not why I'm writing. Eleanor, you always believed me. You always listened, even when the others just laughed, called me 'flighty Mildred.' You remember that old story, don't you? The one from grandmother. About the… the offering. The thing they said lived in the earth, under the house, and how it had to be kept… placated."

Arthur scoffed, a dry, humorless sound in the silent room. Mildred had always been prone to dramatics, to ghost stories. He tried to dismiss it, but his eyes kept scanning. "It started with the cold, Eleanor. Always the cold. Even when the fire roared, there was a chill right here, in this room. And the whispers. At first, I thought it was the wind, pushing through the old chimney. But then… they started calling my name. Soft, like a rustle of leaves, but it was my name. Mildred. Mildred." The pen strokes here were sharp, digging into the paper.

"I tried to ignore it. I did. I blocked the vents. I nailed boards over the attic entrance. But it’s inside, Eleanor. It knows I know. It moves in the walls. I hear it scratching, scratching, scratching, especially at night. Little claws, like a rat, but too rhythmic. Too patient. And the eyes. Oh God, Eleanor, the eyes." Arthur felt a prickle of unease spread across his scalp. He looked around the room, suddenly conscious of the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of weak light cutting through the grime on the window. He thought of the constant creaks, the settling of an old house. But scratching? He hadn't heard scratching.

He read on, Mildred’s fear practically seeping from the page. "It wants something. It always has. Grandmother said it was ancient, a shadow from before the forests grew. And they *fed* it. To keep it quiet. Eleanor, it wants a part of me. I can feel it reaching. My fingers, they’re getting numb sometimes. My thoughts… they’re not always my own." The sentence trailed off here, then resumed with a shaky, almost childish scrawl. "The old place, the cellar… I tried to put things back. The bowl. The seeds. But it wasn’t enough. It’s angry now. So angry. It knows I'm trying to leave. That's why I'm writing you. Come, Eleanor. Please. Before it gets me too. Before I can't…"

The letter ended abruptly. No signature. The last page was stained. A deep, dark reddish-brown blotch, dried and brittle, like old, flaked paint. He touched it, his finger recoiling. It didn't feel like paint. It felt… organic. He remembered the piece wrapped inside. He unwrapped it. It was a shard. A fingernail? No, too thick, too dark. Like something from an animal, but misshapen, gnarled. And dried. He knew, with a certainty that froze his blood, that the stain wasn't paint. And the shard wasn't just a dried leaf.

Then he heard it. A faint scraping. From the wall beside the desk. A low, deliberate, *rhythmic* scratching. Not a rat. Too heavy for a rat. Too slow. He froze, the letter slipping from his numb fingers, landing softly on the floor. His eyes darted to the dark, intricate carvings on the wooden box. The distorted faces seemed to peer out at him, almost grinning. The room, which had been just cold before, now felt like an ice box. He heard the whisper then, not with his ears, but inside his head, a soft, dry rustle. *Mildred. Mildred.*

The scratching grew louder, more insistent. It was coming from *inside* the wall, behind the desk. A deep gouging sound, like something trying to claw its way out. He backed away slowly, his spine prickling, his breath hitched in his throat. His eyes fixed on the spot where the sound emanated. He thought he saw the wallpaper ripple, just slightly, like something was pressing against it from the inside. A long, slow, downward press, then another. Like a finger dragging. He glanced at the unsent letter, at the dark stain, the gnarled shard. He looked back at the wall. The scratching stopped. Then, a soft, wet thud. From within.

He spun on his heel, stumbling, needing to get out. The air suddenly felt too thick, too heavy. His hand found the doorframe, slick with sweat. He looked back, just for a second, at the desk, at the letter. The small, ornate box was open, empty. And the wall, where the scratching had been, now had a faint, almost invisible, dark smear running down it. He felt his blood run cold.

"Eleanor," he whispered, a broken sound in the sudden, absolute silence of the house.