The Censer in the Attic

It had been three years since I last logged onto this site. My old account, under the handle ‘mothlight77’, was a graveyard of half-finished ghost stories and paranoid diary entries I’d sworn to abandon. When I finally returned, expecting a fresh start with a new username, I found every single one of my old posts, comments, and even deleted drafts haunting my new profile. The timestamps were intact, the words untouched. A digital resurrection I hadn’t asked for, but I took it as a sign that maybe I was meant to keep record. So here I am, cataloguing the events that have been plaguing my new home, and for the sake of sanity, I’ll offer rational explanations for each one. But I’ll start with what I found on the first day.

When my partner Theo and I first toured the house, the previous tenant, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Harlow, was still moving out. The place smelled of lavender and something sweet, like burning sugar. I noticed a clay censer, the kind used for incense, sitting out on the fireplace mantel. It was filled with a black resinous substance, and beside it lay a bundle of dried herbs tied with red thread. I recognized it as a smudging stick, though I only knew the term from movies and half-remembered articles. I thought nothing of it at the time. People burn sage to cleanse a space, I reasoned. I even joked to Theo that maybe she was trying to scare off the ghosts. He laughed, but I saw a flicker of unease in his eyes.

We moved in a week later. The house was a Victorian with peeling wallpaper and a staircase that creaked in a rhythm, like a heartbeat. The previous tenant had left behind a few things: a tarnished brass key in the kitchen drawer, a child’s drawing of a black dog taped to the inside of the attic door, and a journal half-filled with cramped handwriting. I’m not the type to invade privacy, but the journal was left in an open box titled ‘MOTHBALLS’. Curiosity got the better of me. The pages were filled with dates and times, each entry describing a peculiar sound: a low hum coming from the attic at 3:33 AM, the sensation of being watched from the garden, and once, a smell of rotting apples that lingered for days. She ended each entry with the words, ‘It feeds on attention.’ I dismissed it as the ramblings of a lonely eccentric.

The first incident happened on our third night. I woke to the sound of a small bell, the kind you’d find on a cat collar, ringing in the hallway. Theo was asleep beside me, his breathing steady. I checked the hallway. Empty. But the bell seemed to come from the attic door, and as I stood there, I smelled something sweet and cloying, like the resin I’d seen in the censer. The rational explanation? A draft from the ancient furnace could have caused a vibration, and the scent was likely from a remnant of Mrs. Harlow’s incense embedded in the floorboards. That’s what I told myself, but my hands were shaking as I returned to bed.

The dreams started next. In them, I was a child, and there was a black dog with red eyes watching me from a field of tall grass. The dog never approached, just stared, and I felt an overwhelming sense of being hunted. I’d wake with my heart pounding, sweat slicking my skin. Theo said I was stressing over work, that the move was taking a toll on me. I almost believed him. But then the drawings appeared. On the attic door, a crayon scribble of a black dog, crude but unmistakable, appeared overnight. I checked the locks; no one had entered. Theo, ever the pragmatist, suggested that maybe a previous tenant had a child who secretly drew on walls, and the paint had faded, only now becoming visible due to humidity changes. It was a stretch, but I accepted it.

Then came the humming. It would start at exactly 3:33 AM, a low, resonant note that vibrated through the floorboards. It lasted for about thirty seconds, then stopped. I set a recording on my phone one night, and when I played it back, the humming was there, faint but distinct. I searched the attic for any electronic device that could produce such a sound, but found nothing. The rational explanation? Pipes in the walls, expanding and contracting as the house cooled. I’d heard of such phenomena. But why at the same time every night? And why did the humming seem to respond to my presence, sometimes starting earlier if I was awake?

One evening, I decided to inspect the censer more closely. It was still on the mantel, as I’d left it, but now it contained ash. I hadn’t burned anything. The ashes were white and light, like burnt paper. As I peered inside, I noticed a small dark object embedded in the ash. I fished it out with a pair of tongs: a molar. It was human, with a single root, stained brown. I felt cold dread wash over me. Theo was out, so I locked the door and Googled ‘molar in incense’ on my phone. I found nothing reassuring. I wrapped the tooth in a tissue and hid it in a drawer, planning to throw it away later. That night, I dreamt of the black dog again, but this time it was closer, its jaws open, and I could see its teeth were human. All of them.

The final straw came when I found a photograph in the attic. It was a Polaroid, faded and curled, showing a young girl with pigtails, holding a black dog on a leash. The dog’s eyes were red in the flash. On the back, in fading ink, ‘Penny and Bram, 1987.’ I recognized the girl’s dress as one from the drawing I’d found earlier. I searched the house for any record of this girl, but found nothing. I went to the land registry and discovered that the house had been owned by a family named Penrose in the 1980s. Their daughter, Penelope, had died in a fire in the attic. The cause was listed as ‘unknown.’ The fire had started in the very corner where I’d found the censer.

A rational explanation? The censer and the ashes could be remnants of a ritual my landlord had performed when he bought the house, perhaps to cleanse it after the tragedy. The molar could belong to the previous tenant, a dental souvenir kept for sentimental reasons, and it somehow fell into the censer. But I couldn’t explain the humming or the dog or the feeling that something was drawing closer each day.

Last night, I sat in the living room, waiting for 3:33 AM. I had the censer in my lap, filled with fresh herbs, and a match. I thought of Mrs. Harlow’s journal: ‘It feeds on attention.’ I did not want to give it attention, but I couldn’t stop now. The clock struck 3:33, and the humming began, louder than ever. I lit the herbs, and as the smoke rose, I saw a figure at the top of the stairs—a child, with pigtails, leading a black dog. The dog’s eyes met mine, and in them, I saw nothing but hunger. I dropped the censer, and it clattered to the floor, spilling ash. The figure disappeared. But I know I didn’t imagine it.

I’m writing this because I need to believe there’s a rational answer for all of this. The house is old, and my mind is playing tricks on me. The mouse in the attic, which might explain the bell, the drafts, and the humming. My stress-induced nightmares and sleepwalking, which could explain the drawings and the misplaced molar. A faulty memory, a vivid imagination, a desire for the supernatural in my mundane life. But the rational explanations are wearing thin, and I’m starting to think that Mrs. Harlow didn’t flee because of the house’s plumbing. She fled because something in the attic had awakened, and it was patient.

I’ve decided to stay one more night. I’ve set up a camera in the attic, and I’ve hung a bell at the door, as a sort of alarm. If nothing happens, I’ll pack my bags and leave. But if something does, if I capture evidence of the dog, or the girl, or the humming, at least I’ll have proof. The problem is, I’m not sure I want proof. Because proof would make it real, and the real is scarier than the imagined. I’ll update this if I can.

There’s evidence I planned to include: a photo of the censer, a recording of the humming. But when I went to gather them, they were gone. The censer is back on the mantel, now filled with fresh herbs, neatly arranged, as if waiting. And the attic door is slightly ajar, though I swear I closed it. A rational explanation? I’ve been up for too long, and my mind is fraying. Or perhaps the house is trying to tell me something. ‘It feeds on attention.’ I’m giving it all I have.

I’ve started to feel a presence behind me as I type. I know I shouldn’t look, but I did. In the reflection of my computer screen, I see a small girl with pigtails standing behind me, holding a dog that is smiling. They are both silent. I’ve turned around, and there’s nothing there. But when I looked back at the screen, I saw the girl’s reflection had moved closer. I can’t do this. I’m going to the attic. I’ll burn the censer. I’ll say prayers. I’ll do anything. But if you’re reading this, and you know this house, if you recognize these signs, please, don’t come looking. Whatever is in the attic, I don’t think it wants to be found. It wants to be fed. And I’m afraid I’ve already given it a taste.