When I inherited my grandparents’ old house, it felt like stepping into a cherished part of my childhood. The creaky floorboards, the musty smell of old books, and the dusty attic all held fond memories. But lately, the comfort of the house had been replaced by a creeping sense of dread.
For the past few weeks, I’d been finding the attic door ajar each morning. The door was heavy and typically closed tightly, so it was odd that it would open by itself. I initially chalked it up to a draft or the house settling. After all, the house was old and had its quirks. But the feeling of unease grew with each passing day.
One evening, as I was locking up, I noticed a small piece of paper wedged into the attic door frame. My heart skipped a beat as I pulled it out and read the message scrawled in messy handwriting: “Come to the attic at midnight. ALONE.” A chill ran down my spine. Who could be leaving these notes? What could they possibly want from me?
I spent the rest of the evening trying to distract myself, but the note gnawed at my mind. Midnight felt like an eternity away. I paced the rooms, trying to convince myself it was a prank or some bizarre mistake. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t ignore it.
As the clock struck twelve, my anxiety peaked. I grabbed a flashlight and tried to steady my trembling hands. Each step up the stairs to the attic felt like a mile. My heart pounded in my chest as I reached the top, the old wooden stairs groaning under my weight.
I hesitated before the attic door, which was now slightly ajar as usual. I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and shone the flashlight inside. The beam of light cut through the darkness, revealing dusty old trunks and cobweb-covered rafters. The attic had been undisturbed for years, and now it seemed eerily silent.
As I moved the flashlight across the room, my breath caught in my throat. In the far corner of the attic, there was a shadowy outline of what looked like a figure. I squinted, trying to make out the details, but the shadow remained indistinct, almost like a dark, amorphous mass.
My pulse raced, and my legs felt weak. I took a cautious step forward, the beam of light following my path. The shadow seemed to shift and move as I approached, but I could still see nothing clearly. The air felt colder, heavier, as if the attic itself was holding its breath.
Suddenly, the figure stepped forward into the light. I gasped, stumbling backward. It wasn’t a person. It was a large, antique mirror covered in dust. It was old and ornate, with intricate carvings around the frame. The shadow I had seen was merely the reflection of the mirror itself.
Shaking, I moved closer, my flashlight revealing something unusual. There was an old photograph taped to the mirror’s surface. I carefully peeled it off and held it up to the light. The photograph showed a family—my grandparents, when they were younger, standing in front of the house.
At the bottom of the photograph was a handwritten note: “To remind you of where you come from, and the love that built this house. Don’t forget the past.”
A sense of relief and sorrow washed over me. It was a message from my grandparents, a reminder of the family legacy. They had always been sentimental, and I should have known that the strange occurrences were a tribute to their love for me and the home we shared. I left the attic with a mixture of emotions, feeling both unsettled and deeply touched. The mirror was a powerful reminder of my heritage and the bonds that connected us. As I closed the attic door behind me, I felt a renewed sense of connection to my grandparents and a newfound appreciation for the old house and its secrets.