Whispers From The Attic

The attic door was never supposed to open.

It was nailed shut when we bought the house—a 19th-century colonial on the edge of Ashfield, a forgotten town with more gravestones than people.

My mom said it was just storage.

The realtor called it “a relic of the past.”

I should’ve listened.

But something… pulled me there.

It started with the scratching.

Soft at first. Like mice. But it came at the same time every night: 3:33 a.m.

Then the whispers began.

---

I thought I was dreaming the first night I heard it. A soft voice, like a child’s, coming through the ceiling:

> "Don’t forget me…"

The next night:

> "You took my place."

By the third night, I wasn’t sleeping at all.

---

On the fourth night, I stood under the attic door, shaking.

I don’t know why I pulled the ladder down. I don’t remember holding the flashlight. All I remember is the cold — unnatural, like walking into someone’s memory.

The attic was empty.

Except for a wooden rocking chair.

And a small diary sitting in its seat.

---

The diary was wrapped in old lace and smelled of rosewater and dust.

The first page read:

> "My name is Elsie. This is the story they buried with me."

The entries were terrifying. Not in what they described, but in how they felt — like her pain was soaked into the ink.

> "Mama says I shouldn’t cry, even when I wake up with scratches. She says the man in the walls is just a dream."

> "He said if I give him my voice, he’ll let me go. I tried. Now I can’t scream anymore."

> "Someone new is coming. He says she’ll look like me. He says she’ll finish what I started.”

The last page had no date. Just one line:

> “Hello, Emma.”

That’s my name.

---

I slammed the book shut and ran.

But I couldn’t leave.

My phone stopped working. The front door wouldn’t unlock. My mother? She had gone to work and never came back.

Every mirror showed Elsie’s face behind mine.

Every night, the whispers grew louder.

---

I called the police.

They came.

They laughed.

Until they opened the attic.

The rocking chair was gone.

And so was the diary.

Instead, there was a message scratched into the floorboards:

> “Emma isn’t home right now.”

---

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I write in this journal every day now, but the handwriting doesn’t look like mine.

I whisper when I sleep. I see faces in reflections.

I hear giggles from the dark.

And last night…

I rocked in that chair for hours.

---

Things are changing.

Yesterday, I found a new entry in the attic’s floorboards. Not scratched, but carved neatly:

> "Almost ready."

This morning, there were drawings on the walls. Not mine. Children’s drawings. Stick figures and red circles. A tall shadow with too many arms. A girl with no mouth.

I tried burning the diary. I soaked it in gasoline and watched it curl into ash.

The next night, it was back on the chair.

Opened to a blank page.

A pen sitting beside it.

Waiting.

---

I hear her more now. Not just at night.

She hums when I brush my hair. She giggles when I open the fridge. She sobs when I lock the bathroom door.

I think she’s trying to live again. Through me.

Or worse—I think I’m fading.

I forget things. My birthday. My mom’s face. My own voice.

Elsie remembers though. She writes about them in the diary.

> "We liked strawberry milk."

"We hated being alone."

"We missed our mother, didn’t we?"

---

Tonight is different.

She says I’m ready.

She wants me to go up one more time. Sit in the chair. Write the final page.

She says when I do, I’ll understand.

That I’ll finally feel whole.

I think I’m going to do it.

I don’t know if I want to. But I have to.

Because the scratching never stopped.

Because the attic door is open again.

Because I don’t remember who I am anymore.

But Elsie...

Elsie never forgets.

---

🕯️ Author’s Note:

Some houses remember the pain of the people who once lived in them.

Some memories become strong enough to whisper.

And some whispers… never die.

Welcome to James World — where shadows breathe and forgotten voices speak.

If you felt the chill, heard the whisper, or saw her in your dreams...

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