Stories To Tell In The Dark

Eyes In The Attic

It was an old house, one of those faded relics you see on the outskirts of town, forgotten by the bustle of modern life. It stood on a hill, surrounded by tall trees whose branches creaked and groaned in the wind like they were warning passersby to keep their distance. The paint had peeled off long ago, leaving the wooden structure gray and weathered, as though the house had given up on life. The windows were dusty and shut tight, like the house itself was hiding from the world.

For a hundred years, the house had remained uninhabited, its only visitors the occasional stray animal or curious teenager daring each other to enter. It had become a kind of local legend, whispered about in bars and backyards. No one really knew its full history—just that it had been empty for so long, and that something about it seemed wrong.

Then, one day, a new family arrived: the Blackwoods.

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Daniel Blackwood was a writer. His wife, Evelyn, was an artist. And their daughter, Claire, was a 10-year-old with an imagination too vivid for her own good. They were looking for a fresh start—away from the crowded streets of the city, away from the noise of their hectic lives. They thought Hollow Creek, with its quiet charm and distant feel, was the perfect place to settle down.

When they first saw the house, Daniel was immediately taken with it. It was old, but not in the way that made him think it was dangerous—no, it was old in the way that felt comfortable, like a relic of the past that had stories to tell. The kind of house that could inspire novels and paintings. The type of place where they could all breathe again.

At first, it seemed like everything would be perfect. The house had a sprawling yard where Claire could play, tall oak trees that gave the property a sense of seclusion, and the interior was spacious enough for the three of them. They spent the first few weeks unpacking and exploring. The walls were covered with faded wallpaper, and the wood floors creaked underfoot. But the atmosphere was warm, and they made it their home.

It was the attic that intrigued them the most.

The attic door was small, tucked away in the hallway of the second floor, behind an old wooden door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. The latch was rusted, and the door itself was heavy, creaking as it was pushed open. The stairs leading up to the attic were narrow and steep, barely wide enough for a person to fit comfortably. Still, Daniel couldn’t resist the idea of exploring it, especially since there was a strange door at the far end of the attic, almost hidden behind piles of forgotten furniture and old trunks.

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The first sign that something was wrong came a week after they had moved in.

It was Claire who noticed it first. One afternoon, while Daniel was working at his desk and Evelyn was in the kitchen, Claire had decided to explore the attic once again. She had always been drawn to it, fascinated by the clutter, the cobwebs, and the dust-covered remnants of whoever had lived there before. She climbed the creaky stairs and wandered through the piles of old furniture, peeking inside boxes filled with yellowing letters and cracked photo frames.

It was there that she saw it.

At first, she thought it was just an old mirror—a tarnished, full-length mirror leaning against the far wall, partly hidden behind a wardrobe. But as she walked closer, something about it unsettled her. The reflection didn’t look quite right. The colors were too dark, the shapes too blurred. But it wasn’t just that—it was the feeling. She felt as if something in the mirror was moving, shifting just out of her view.

Claire tried to dismiss the feeling, telling herself that it was just her imagination. But every time she looked into the mirror, the reflection seemed to change. It was as though something—or someone—was standing just behind her. She could never catch a clear image, but the sensation was undeniable.

The next day, she mentioned it to her parents.

“I don’t like the attic,” she told them quietly, her wide eyes full of a fear she couldn’t explain. “There’s something in the mirror. It’s… watching me.”

Daniel smiled at her, brushing it off as a child’s overactive imagination. But Evelyn, who was more perceptive, frowned. She had always been sensitive to energy, to feelings and vibrations that others might miss. And though she hadn’t noticed anything particularly strange about the house, Claire’s unease made her uneasy.

“We’ll go up together, honey,” Evelyn said gently. “Let’s take a look at it and see what we find.”

The next morning, they all climbed the stairs to the attic. The air was thick and stale, the smell of old wood and dust surrounding them. Claire led the way, her small hand gripping her mother’s, her eyes fixed on the dark corner where the mirror stood. Evelyn approached it carefully, her brow furrowed in thought. She glanced into the mirror.

Nothing.

It was just a mirror—tarnished, old, a relic of a time long past. Nothing out of the ordinary. But Claire’s distress was palpable.

“I don’t want to go up there anymore,” Claire said, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t make me.”

Evelyn crouched down and took her daughter’s face in her hands. “Sweetheart, I think maybe you’re just scared because it’s so big and dark up here. It’s just an old mirror. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

But Evelyn was wrong. The mirror was only the beginning.

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Over the next few days, things began to change in the house. Little things at first—whispers in the hall at night, the floorboards creaking when no one was walking on them, an occasional draft from nowhere. But as the days wore on, the strange occurrences became more pronounced.

At night, Evelyn began to hear footsteps in the attic. But when she went to check, no one was there. The mirror seemed to reflect more than it should—sometimes she would catch strange shapes in the glass, flickers of movement too fast for her to catch. But when she turned around, the attic was always empty.

Claire’s behavior also began to change. She became withdrawn, often staring out of windows for hours, her face pale and distant. She would wake in the middle of the night, screaming in terror, though she couldn’t remember what had frightened her. It was as though something in the house was slowly eating away at her sanity.

It was Daniel who first saw them.

One evening, as he worked late into the night, typing away at his computer, he saw something in the corner of his eye—movement in the hallway just outside his study. Thinking it was Claire, he stood up to check on her, but when he opened the door, the hallway was empty. He stepped into the hall, looking both ways, but there was no sign of anyone. No sign of Claire.

And then he heard it. The sound of breathing—soft, labored, coming from behind the attic door.

His heart pounded as he slowly approached the door, his hand trembling on the rusted latch. He opened it, feeling a chill sweep over him as he climbed the narrow stairs into the attic. The room was dark, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw them.

Eyes.

Hundreds of them. All staring at him from the shadows. Eyes that glowed faintly, like embers in the dark. They were in the corners, in the cracks of the old wood, peering at him from behind the trunks and boxes. They weren’t just reflections in the mirror—they were everywhere.

Before he could process what he was seeing, a voice—whispering, but clear—cut through the silence.

“Leave…”

Daniel froze. The voice was low, almost guttural, as though it came from deep within the house itself. He turned around, but there was no one behind him. Only the eyes, watching, waiting.

The mirror, too, seemed to be alive now, the reflection twisting and warping as if it was no longer just a glass pane but something far more sinister. It was no longer reflecting the attic—no, it reflected something darker, something older. And standing in the reflection, right behind him, was a figure—a tall, emaciated shape with hollow eyes and skin stretched too tight. The figure’s mouth opened slowly, and a low, guttural laugh echoed through the attic.

“Leave…”

Daniel stumbled backward, his heart racing, his mind struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. He slammed the attic door shut behind him, his breathing shallow as he rushed back downstairs.

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From that night on, the house grew worse. The whispers never stopped. The eyes never stopped watching. Claire stopped speaking altogether, her voice lost in the depths of the attic, as though the house itself had swallowed her.

One evening, after hours of silence, Evelyn came to Daniel, her face pale with terror. “I saw her,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Claire… she’s in the attic.”

Without a word, Daniel rushed to the stairs, but before he could reach the door, a voice—Claire’s voice—screamed from above.

“Don’t come up here! They’ll *take* you!”

But it was too late.

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The police never found the Blackwoods. The house, though it stood empty for years, eventually fell into ruin. No one dared to go near it, not after the whispers, not after what had happened. People said the Blackwoods had left—moved away in the middle of the night. Others whispered that the house had *claimed* them.

And to this day, if you stand on the hill near the house, on a clear night with no clouds in the sky, you can sometimes see the reflection of a figure in the attic window—staring back at you, waiting for someone else to take the place of those who were lost.

The eyes are always watching.