The Creaking Above
Added 2025-04-29 19:29:10 +0000 UTCEver since Anne moved into the old farmhouse, she’d heard strange noises from the attic—soft scraping, the occasional thud, and always around 3 a.m. At first, she dismissed it as raccoons. But each night, the sounds grew louder, closer… deliberate.
One night, she couldn't sleep and sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea when she heard it: a slow, rhythmic creaking from the ceiling above. It wasn’t random anymore. It was pacing.
Gripping a flashlight, she climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. The air grew colder with each step. When she opened the hatch, a musty smell poured down. Dust danced in her flashlight beam, but the room appeared empty—until she swept the light toward the far corner.
A pale, slender figure crouched there, impossibly thin and long-limbed, its eyes like glass marbles reflecting her light. It didn’t move. It didn’t blink.
“I know you see me now,” it rasped, in a voice dry as old paper. Then it smiled—too wide for its face.
The hatch slammed shut behind her. No one heard Anne scream.
But the neighbors? They say they still hear pacing in the attic—every night at 3 am.
Love, Erinthul.
