Shadows in the Attic

I had always loved old houses, so when I found one on the edge of town with a “for rent” sign, I didn’t hesitate. The place was charming, with creaking floors, high ceilings, and an attic that I was told had once been used for storage. The landlord warned me that the attic was dusty and dark, but nothing more. I laughed it off, thinking of the old horror movies I’d watched as a teenager.

The first few nights were peaceful. I explored every corner of the house except the attic. It was at the top of a narrow staircase, behind a door that groaned loudly whenever I opened it. The smell of old wood and dust was overwhelming, and I promised myself I’d deal with it another day.

But on the third night, I heard noises. A soft scratching, almost like fingernails against wood, coming from above my bedroom. I froze, straining to listen. The sound stopped as quickly as it began. I told myself it was probably just the wind through the eaves and tried to sleep.

The next night, the scratching came again, louder and more persistent. I got out of bed to check the attic door. It was closed. I hadn’t touched it in days. My hand trembled as I reached for the knob. When I turned it, the door creaked open slowly, revealing darkness. I shone my flashlight inside and saw nothing. Just boxes, dust, and cobwebs.

I stepped inside cautiously. The floorboards groaned under my weight. As I moved further, I thought I saw shadows flicker at the corners of my vision. I spun around, shining the light, but there was nothing. I felt a chill crawl up my spine and left the attic quickly, slamming the door behind me.

That night, the scratching returned, this time directly above my head. The ceiling seemed to groan as though someone—or something—was moving. I pulled the covers over my head, trying to convince myself it was my imagination. But sleep did not come.

Over the next few days, I noticed other strange things. Objects I had left on the floor were moved slightly. Small scratches appeared on the wooden stairs. Sometimes, when I walked past the attic door, it felt like someone was watching me from inside.

One evening, I decided to confront it. I climbed the attic stairs, flashlight in hand, and called out, “Who’s there?” My voice echoed back, hollow and strange. A shadow moved in the far corner. I froze. The light revealed nothing tangible, only a darkness thicker than the rest of the room.

Suddenly, a voice whispered from the darkness, soft and cold. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I stumbled backward. The attic door slammed shut behind me with a force that made the walls shake. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. The scratching grew louder, moving closer and closer. My flashlight flickered, and for a brief moment, I saw something crouching in the corner. Its shape was humanoid but impossible to fully make out. Two glowing eyes stared straight at me.

I screamed and pounded on the door. The door finally swung open, and I ran down the stairs without looking back. Outside my bedroom, everything seemed normal again. The air was still. The attic door was closed, as if nothing had happen

I called the landlord the next morning. He hesitated before speaking. “The previous tenant… didn’t last long. They said they felt watched. Some houses… they hold memories. Sometimes people… stay.

I didn’t understand what he meant. That night, I decided I would avoid the attic entirely. I locked the door with my own padlock and tried to sleep. But the scratching continued, softer now, like whispers from another room. Every night, it seemed closer, until I could swear it was directly beneath my bed.

Eventually, I left. I couldn’t stay in a house that had eyes, voices, and shadows in every corner. When I moved, I left the padlock on the attic door. Sometimes, I think about that house. Sometimes, late at night, I hear scratching, and I wonder if the shadows ever followed me.