Chapter Six
653 Words
The attic door groaned as Annie pulled it open, the sound echoing down the narrow upper hallway. A chill rolled out from the space above, carrying with it the scent of dust, cedar, and something older, forgotten time sealed beneath heavy boards and insulation.
She hesitated for only a moment before climbing the steep, narrow staircase, flashlight in hand.
She needed a distraction. After Leo's strange, cold withdrawal the day before, her thoughts had tangled into knots. The only way to clear her mind was to keep busy. And the attic? It had been taunting her since day one.
The attic was cavernous and dim, filled with the odd angles of the roof and boxes stacked like little monuments. Sheets covered old furniture like ghostly figures waiting to be acknowledged.
Annie clicked on her flashlight and made her way toward the far wall, where an old steamer trunk sat under a broken lamp. The wood creaked beneath her boots, every sound louder than it should’ve been.
She opened the trunk slowly.
Inside were bundles of photographs, sepia and black-and-white prints, bound in ribbon and brittle with age. She brushed the dust from the top bundle and pulled it out, heart beginning to race, not with fear, but with anticipation.
The first photo was of a man standing in front of Winterbourne Estate, younger than she expected but unmistakable.
Sharp cheekbones. That same aristocratic jaw.
Those same dark eyes.
Elias.
She stared at it, breath caught.
On the back, faded ink read:
“Leondo Winther, 1919.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she flipped through the others. Leo in the ballroom. Leo in the garden. Leo standing near the grand fireplace downstairs. Always solemn. Always watching the camera with that haunted stillness she now recognized.
Some photos had others in them, well-dressed women with gloves and parasols, men in coats and hats. A few had Elias seated beside a woman with soft curls and a pinched smile, her hand barely resting on his.
But it was always him who drew the eye.
She turned another photo over.
“Winter Gala, December 1919.”
Her heart thundered.
He had been here over a century ago.
Still looked exactly the same.
Still… watching.
How is this possible?
A loud crash behind her sent the breath fleeing from her lungs.
She dropped the photographs and spun around, flashlight shaking in her grip.
A box had fallen from a top shelf and burst open, scattering yellowed papers and lace cloth across the floor.
Nothing else moved. No wind. No footsteps.
Still, Annie’s skin prickled.
She stepped toward the fallen box slowly, her breath shallow. The contents were old letters, invitations, and fragile pieces of fabric—possibly from gowns or table settings.
She crouched down and gathered a few of the papers. One of them had her fingers stilling mid-motion.
It was a handwritten letter addressed to Leondo Winther, dated January 3, 1920.
The ink had faded, but she could still make out pieces.
“We tried everything to bring you back from the madness… but it’s as if something kept you behind, even when we buried you. I see you still, at the edge of the garden, in the mirror of the drawing room...”
She let the letter fall from her hands.
Buried.
They buried him.
And yet he still walked the halls.
Still watched from the shadows.
Still spoke to her in a voice that was warm one night and ice the next.
“Leo…” she whispered.
A soft sound behind her made her stand up sharply. She turned her flashlight, but there was no one there.
Only the outline of a man’s shadow on the attic door. Tall. Still. Waiting.
But when she flung the door open, the hallway was empty.
No footsteps. No echo.
Just the rising knowledge, cold and quiet, that she had uncovered something she wasn’t meant to know.
- Writer
