The Attic Watcher

The bed-and-breakfast in the old town of Kilkenny had been a convent centuries ago, its stone walls thick with the prayers and penances of long-dead nuns. I’d booked the attic room for my aunt’s visit, drawn to its crooked beams and the dormer window overlooking the river. The owners, a cheerful couple named the Flynns, had converted it into a cozy retreat, complete with a four-poster bed and a threadbare rug that smelled of dust and lavender.

The first night was uneventful. We’d spent the day wandering the winding streets, climbing the round tower, and listening to traditional music in a pub that smelled of peat smoke and stout. By the time we returned, we were weary, and the creaking floorboards of the stairway only added to the historic charm. We fell asleep quickly, the weight of the day pressing us into the feather mattress.

In the dead of night, I woke with a start. The room was pitch black, the curtains thick enough to blot out the streetlamps below. I lay still, listening to my aunt’s soft breathing from the other side of the bed, and felt it immediately: a presence, heavy and cold, at the foot of the mattress. It wasn’t a person—there was no sound, no weight on the bed—but it was there, watching. The skin on my arms prickled, and my heart began to pound.

I tried to rationalize. The wind against the window, the old house settling. But the feeling only intensified, seemingly focused on my face, as if invisible eyes were boring into me. I squeezed my own eyes shut and tried to will it away, but the air grew colder, and I could hear a faint, high-pitched hum, barely audible, like a distant swarm of bees.

Desperate, I tried to mentally block it. I imagined a wall of white light around me, a barrier of pure thought. But the presence pushed against it, and I felt a searing pain in my temples, as if something was trying to claw its way into my skull. I gasped, and my aunt stirred, murmuring, ‘You okay?’ I didn’t answer, afraid that if I moved, the thing would attack. I kept building my mental wall, brick by brick, until the pressure eased, and the hum faded.

Then I heard a sound from the corner of the room: a soft, rhythmic scratching, like nails on wood. It was coming from behind the wardrobe, a piece of dark oak that seemed to lean into the room. I held my breath, and the scratching stopped. For a moment, there was silence, and then the wardrobe door creaked open, just a crack.

I woke with a jerk, sitting bolt upright in bed. The room was still dark, but the cold was gone, and the air felt thin and normal. My aunt was still asleep, undisturbed. I lay back down, trembling, and told myself it had been a nightmare. But in the morning, when I went to use the bathroom, I noticed that the wardrobe door was slightly ajar. I had not opened it, and my aunt swore she hadn’t either. I closed it, and we checked out later that day, never mentioning it again.

But sometimes, when I close my eyes at night, I feel that same heavy gaze, and I hear the faint hum, and I know that the attic watcher still waits for me, patient and hungry, behind the door.