Shadowsin the attic
401 Words
The silence had lasted three days.
James wandered the house like a ghost, unsure if he was still haunted or simply hollow. The mirrors no longer flickered. The whispers had ceased. Even the air felt lighter, as if the house had exhaled after centuries of holding its breath.
But peace, he learned, was a fragile thing.
On the fourth night, the attic door creaked open.
James hadn’t touched it. He was certain. He’d sealed it shut with nails and boards, determined never to return. But now, the boards lay splintered on the floor, the door ajar, darkness spilling down the stairs like ink.
He climbed slowly, flashlight in hand.
The attic was colder than he remembered. Dust hung in the air, thick and unmoving. The trunk was still there, untouched. But something else had appeared.
A mirror.
Oval-shaped. Framed in rusted iron. It hadn’t been there before.
James approached cautiously. The surface shimmered faintly, like it was holding back a storm.
He stared into it.
At first, nothing.
Then, movement.
A shadow.
It wasn’t Eleanor.
It wasn’t Claire.
It was him.
But not quite.
The reflection was twisted—eyes darker, posture rigid, a faint smile that didn’t belong to him. It stared back, unblinking.
James stepped closer.
The reflection moved independently.
It raised a hand.
Tapped the glass.
Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.
James staggered back. The rhythm. The same one he’d heard in the walls.
The mirror pulsed.
Then spoke.
“You broke the loop. But you didn’t close the door.”
James’s voice trembled. “Who are you?”
The reflection smiled wider. “I’m what’s left. The echo. The shadow. The part of you that stayed behind.”
James felt the attic shift. The walls groaned. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet.
“You’re not real,” he whispered.
“Neither is peace,” the reflection replied. “You gave up your past. But the house remembers. And now... it wants you back.”
The mirror shattered.
James fell to the floor, shards slicing his palms. The attic roared with sound—whispers, footsteps, laughter. The trunk burst open, letters flying into the air like birds escaping a cage.
He crawled to the stairs, heart pounding, and fled the attic.
The door slammed shut behind him.
But the tapping continued.
In the walls.
In the floor.
In his dreams.
The house was quiet.
But the shadows had returned
- Writer
