My name is Alex, and I’m writing this as a desperate plea for help and a warning to anyone who may be considering moving into any old, seemingly charming house.
You see, my life has become a living nightmare ever since I moved into this place. There’s something living in my attic, I know it sounds stupid but I’m not alone in this house. And it’s not something silly like a ghost or evil spirit. It’s something far worse.
It all started innocently enough, just like any other move. I found the house online, a beautiful Colonial Revival style house, complete with a plot of land. It was in beautiful condition and when I viewed it I fell in love with its charm there and then.
I made my offer and bought the place the next day, the owners practically snapped my arm off when I offered them a deal, that should have been my first sign something was wrong. Within a month I was all moved in. But from that moment, whenever I set foot in the old building, I could feel an inexplicable heaviness in the air, like the house itself was displeased with its newfound occupancy.
The house had taken on a new, unsettling atmosphere which set me on edge, like staring eyes watching my every move. But the feeling was strongest upstairs, whenever I looked at the attic door.
The attic door was an old wooden hatch in the high ceiling of my bedroom, with a dangling cord to open it from below. Each time I glanced up at it, a shiver ran down my spine.
I brushed these off as the side effects from new, unfamiliar surroundings as well as jitters from the move. But as the days wore on the feeling remained ever-present. In fact, it actually seemed to be getting worse.
The first signs of this being something more than my imagination came a couple of days after I settled in. At night, while lying in bed, I could hear faint scratching noises above me. At first, I convinced myself it was just the sounds of the old house settling, the old boards creaking into place.
But the noises persisted, becoming louder and more pronounced, echoing throughout the walls of my bedroom. I worried that it might be rats, mice, or some other rodent in the attic. It was an old house after all so it was bound to attract some pests.
The next evening, as I tried to ignore the sounds coming from above me, I caught a glimpse of something dark moving in the corner of my eye, in the direction of the hatch that led to the attic. I turned towards the attic door, but much to my relief it was shut tightly. My heart pounded in my chest, and I quickly dismissed it as a trick of the light, refusing to entertain the notion that there could be something up there.
Days turned into weeks, and the scratching in the attic became more frequent, even interspersed with the odd bumping sound, as though something had fallen over or been dropped, but there was nothing in the attic to fall over.
I’d not used it since moving in, instead using the basement as my main storage area. I assumed the bumping must have been due to the pipes running through the floors. They’d not been used for several years so it was understandable that they might be a bit noisy as they eased back into working order.
I found myself avoiding my bedroom, choosing to sleep on the couch instead. Every time I heard those unsettling sounds, my anxiety skyrocketed, and I couldn’t bear to look at the attic door. Even downstairs I could hear them, the scraping, scratching noises. I tried to tell myself that it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, there was no way I could be hearing those sounds down here too. But deep down, I knew there had to be something up there.
The next day, I mustered up the courage to investigate the attic, to prove to myself once and for all that everything was ok with the house and that the sounds were in my head. Armed with a flashlight, I slowly ascended the creaky stairs to my bedroom.
I entered the room and pulled the cord that was dangling from the attic door. The door dropped open with ease and a ladder quickly descended from the dark portal that I had opened. The musty smell of dust and dampness that followed the ladder down was almost suffocating, as though the hatch had not been opened for years. Tentatively, with shaking hands, I began to climb the ladder.
As I reached the top and peered over the threshold, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The attic was a large open space, the floor was boarded from end to end and looked to have once seen frequent use, but now it stood barren and empty. The darkness in here was palpable, it seemed to stretch on forever, consuming all light that entered. It was only broken by a small pinprick of light that seemed to be making its way into the attic through the floor a little further away from the opening I was standing in.
I bought up my flashlight to better see the source of the light, not sure exactly what I would find. As I swept the beam of my flashlight across the attic towards that stream of light, it illuminated a sight that sent chills down my spine.
There were marks on the old floorboards, long deep grooves. They looked like they had been made by something frantically scratching at the board with something sharp. The wood on either side of them was covered in dustlike shavings from whatever had made that depression.
This in itself set off alarm bells of fear in the back of my mind, but there was something that bugged me about it that I couldn’t quite place. I flicked the light around a little more, noting more of the deep scratches in the floor, but there was nothing as deep as the indentation I’d seen initially. It seemed as though whatever had made the marks on the floorboards was focusing specifically on this one spot, almost as though it was digging.
I was right, there was definitely something strange up here, it wasn’t just my imagination. Then it hit me, the hole, if you followed it down through the floorboards and ceiling it would be directly over where I slept at night. Perplexed and a little disturbed by this, I carried on searching the attic with the beam of my flashlight, hoping to find some more answers to the bizarre questions that were being raised by my search.
I scanned from end to end with my flashlight, with nothing further being revealed. My curiosity was not slated, however, and I turned around to scan the other side of the attic. As I turned around, the beam of my flashlight illuminated something right in front of me, startling me.
I had to stop myself from falling back down the ladder as my strength left me for a second.
After composing myself I was able to make out what it was. It looked like an old children’s toy. A bunny, made from an ageing hemp sack with a stitched-on nose and whiskers. It must have been left here by the previous owners.
Unlike the rest of the attic, this wasn’t covered in dust, it looked relatively clean in comparison, despite its aged appearance. Picking it up it was light, as though filled with cotton or some other fluffy padding. It was also warm.
Another jolt of terror shot through me, how could this be warm? I shuddered at the thought that something might be living inside it, and dropped it with a soft thud on the attic floor. Even more perplexed than I was before, I carried on scanning the room in the hopes of finding the nest of the rodents responsible for the nightly scratching.
There, huddled in the far corner, was what I can only describe as a nest of sorts. As the light poured over it I could make out a combination of twigs, old clothes, and other scraps that had been arranged to create some kind of a makeshift shelter. The nest itself seemed to be surrounded by the tiny skeletons of small birds and animals. My stomach dropped and I felt the blood drain from my face.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was something living in my attic, and it wasn’t just a rat or mouse. It was intelligent enough to build a nest. I couldn’t see any signs of life in that dim light, and I wasn’t about to stick around to find out what made that den.
Hastily making my way back down the ladder, I was glad to be back on the solid floor of my bedroom. Grabbing it by the bottom rung I threw it up as hard as I could, causing it to shoot back up into the terrifying gloom, dragging the hatch shut after it with an almighty slam.
I was out of my depth. I decided to consult with experts. Several pest control professionals came and searched the attic thoroughly, only to find it completely empty. No trace of anything living up there, no sign of the nest I’d found or the stuffed rabbit or the small animal skeletons.
They did find the gouges, but they all gave me different answers as to what could have been responsible, ranging from old marks from rodents that have since been exterminated, to racoons that had somehow gotten into the attic in the winter months before leaving again in the summer. They assured me that there were no signs of animals or pests there now. But I knew what I had seen.
In my desperation, I hired a private investigator to look into the history of the house, for any sort of clue as to what could have made those marks and nest. To check if the house had a history of pest problems. He didn’t contact me for a few days, but when he did, he’d uncovered a horrifying story.
Around 40 years ago, the house belonged to a reclusive artist. He was a brilliant sculptor, able to breathe life into almost any medium. After the passing of his wife some 20 years after they moved in he began to retreat into himself and his work, shunning visitors and hardly ever leaving the house.
No one saw him for weeks on end, not until he needed to go into the nearby town for supplies when their food began to run low. Occasionally they would catch glimpses of his 13-year-old daughter playing in the grass in front of the house or walking past the windows, but these glimpses were also few and far between.
Some of the things he mentioned when he was seen caused a stir among the people. Talk of finding a new medium to work with, the most lifelike materials. As close to a living thing as possible.
Some 10 years later, there had been a spate of grave robbings in the town. Although nobody said it, everyone suspected the artist, assuming that this was the medium he was talking about in his half-mad ravings. A few days after the artist didn’t come into town on his usual supply run, the neighbours and townspeople began to worry.
The couple from the next house over decided to check on them, bringing some food to make sure that they had a hot meal, especially the daughter. As they approached the house something seemed off. All of the curtains were pulled closed, thickly covering the windows and preventing any discernibility of the inside.
They proceeded to the front door, only to find it unlocked, gently opening at their knock. The house was deathly silent as they proceeded up the stairs, the stench of decay thick in the air. Now terrified as to the fate of the artist and his daughter, the couple began to search the house.
Each room was the same as the last, untouched and empty, a thin layer of dust coating its contents. It looked as though these rooms had not been used in some time. Then they noticed a path in the dust, as though someone had made several trips back and forth through it. The path led up the main staircase and into the master bedroom before coming to a stop directly under the open attic hatch. The air was foul under that hatch, as though whatever was responsible for the decaying stench lay just beyond it.
Leaving her husband to stand vigil in case the artist or his daughter were to appear, the wife of the neighbours ran home to retrieve a ladder, bringing it back as quickly as she could. She returned with the ladder shortly after, and with tentative steps, the husband began his ascent into the attic.
A few seconds after his head poked through the attic he shouted for his wife to call the police. When she asked what was wrong he didn’t answer, a look of shock and disgust across his face. Shaking his leg she asked again, but he could only respond with “…..It’s him….”
The police arrived and made their way into the attic, only to discover the sight that caused such distress in the man. There in the attic, hanging by his neck from one of the rafters, was the artist. It looked as though he had been there for several days, his body beginning to swell and bloat with the first signs of decay. Beneath him were several other corpses, each with parts missing. Some were missing arms, legs or digits, while others were missing parts of their faces or skin. They looked grey and cold to the touch, as though they had been deceased for some time.
This was enough to make some of the weak stomached officers lose their breakfast, but the thing that shook the officers the most was the note tied around the artist’s neck. On a thin scrap of paper, held in place by a length of string, it contained only one sentence that read, “She’s perfect now.” Greatly concerned as to the fate of the artist’s daughter, the police searched for hours in several places around the house and town but could not find any sign of her.
The investigator handed me a picture of the artist and his daughter, an old photo taken on a Polaroid camera. The artist looked proud, standing in front of this very house, along with a woman who I assumed was his wife and a young girl that must have been his daughter, staring into the camera.
Could the presence in my attic be some sinister remnant of the artist’s work? It was a terrifying thought, but it was the only explanation that made sense. I thanked the investigator and handed him the picture back, now shaken even more by the disturbing story he’d told.
I began to feel like a prisoner in my own home, constantly on edge and unable to escape the feeling of being watched. The sound in the attic was there, still ceaseless as ever. I continued trying my best to ignore it but all my brain could do was conjure up images of the artist and those corpses.
And then one night, I saw it. Lying in my bed, I was attempting to get to sleep, attempting to block out that scratching sound when I felt something odd touch my face. It felt almost like dust or sand. Brushing it off and opening my eyes I noticed what looked like a yellow powder. Sawdust. Confused and concerned, I turned my head in the direction of the source of the dust.
A pair of glowing eyes stared back at me through a hole in the ceiling, directly above me. As soon as my eyes made contact with theirs they vanished, retreating out of sight of the hole. I was terrified at what I’d just seen, but then I heard a noise that made my stomach drop. The clicking of the attic hatch opening and the ladder beginning to slide down.
A new wave of fear washed over me along with a bolt of adrenaline and I was on my feet in an instant. Whatever it was that had looked at me through the attic, I didn’t want to stick around to find out.
I ran as fast as I could out of my room, not daring to look back as I heard the first thud and creak of something descending from the black abyss of the attic hatch. My mind was reeling. There was something in the attic. It had been watching me. What did it want?
I flew down the staircase into the hall, ready to swing the front door open and get as far away from this place and this thing as I could. But in the back of my mind there was a curiosity, the gnawing urge to know what it was that had been tormenting me ever since I moved into this place. Against my better judgement, I chanced a glance over my shoulder, back up the stairs towards my room.
My heart froze as the figure moved into view. Pulling itself through my bedroom doorframe was a tall, hunched silhouette with several twisted limbs. It looked as though it had once been a young human woman, but it could barely be called that anymore. It had several grotesque arms and legs, all sprouting from different places on its body. They were all different skin tones and shapes, as though they didn’t all belong to it originally.
Some also seemed to have far more joints than normal, as though they were a combination of limbs rather than a single, solid piece. The hands and feet were the same, some had extra fingers and toes, some so much so that they were almost surrounded by them.
The way it moved, using several of the limbs to grab onto the door frame, and several more to lurch through, was like nothing that should have ever existed. Its spiderlike larger limbs dragging it ever closer towards me.
Then there was its face. Its face was that of a young woman, but it had been changed so much that it could hardly be recognised. Its eyes were cold and unfeeling, and its mouth contorted, stretched back into a haunting grin.
As it moved further into the moonlight I could make out stitches in the joints of its horrific appendages, holding them together. I could also make out stitches pulling back the eyes and mouth of the creature into its horrific contortion. Even though this thing was no longer human, there was something familiar about the eyes, like I’d seen them before somewhere.
I stumbled back, horror coursing through my veins. This wasn’t a ghost, but something far more sinister. As I backed away towards the door, it bought one of its many, terrible hands up in front of it, bringing it to its grotesque face with a single finger extended before breathing out a high-pitched shushing noise.
I ran. As fast as I could. A new burst of adrenaline carried me out of the house and into my car. I flung down the sun visor, revealing the spare set of keys. Fumbling with them I frantically tried to start the ignition. All the while I was staring at the thing making its way down the stairs, it looked……amused…..as though it was enjoying the terror it was putting me through.
With a roar, my engine burst into life and I slammed my foot down as hard as I could on the accelerator, the car screeching down the driveway and out onto the main road. I don’t know how long I was driving like that, but eventually, I came back to my senses, bringing my car to a halt in a nearby motel parking lot.
Questions reeled around in my mind. What was that thing? How long had it been watching me? What did it want? I made my way to the motel, getting a room for the night so that I could try to get some rest, try to figure out what the hell was happening.
As I lay down on the creaky mattress and thought about the house, there was something I just couldn’t shake. It’s eyes. That thing’s eyes had seemed so familiar like I’d seen them before somewhere. I couldn’t for the life of me think where.
Then it hit me, and I entered another spiralling wave of panic and fear. I’d seen those eyes before, in the Polaroid of the artist. His daughter.
Since that night, I’ve been living in constant fear. I’ve only been back to the house a couple of times to get essentials, and even then I’ve not hung around to see if she’s still there. I’ve not seen that thing since but I don’t know if it’ll find me.
I’ve tried to tell others about what’s happening, but no one believes me. They think I’m just overreacting or suffering from some sort of delusion. But I know the truth, and the truth is that there’s something living in my attic, something malevolent and hungry for something I can’t comprehend.
I write this as a warning to anyone who may come across this story. Don’t dismiss the strange noises or the unsettling feelings in your new home. There are things in this world that defy explanation, and once they latch onto you, there’s no escape.
If you ever find yourself in a house with an attic, beware. There’s something living in my attic, and it’s hungry for more than just a home.