The Chime in the Attic

The house on Birchwood Lane had been our home for nearly two years, and in that time, I had learned to tolerate its creaks and groans. But some sounds were not so easy to dismiss.

It began on a Tuesday night, as I tucked my daughter, Lily, into bed. She was six and had a fascination with a plastic robot named Boppy that, when its chest button was pressed, would announce, ‘Boppy is here to help!’ in a cheerful, tinny voice. Lily adored it, though she usually left it on her toy shelf by the window. That night, I closed her door, descended the stairs, and settled onto the couch with a book. Twenty minutes passed when a high, mechanical chirp cut through the quiet: ‘Boppy is here to help!’ I froze. The sound came from upstairs, but I knew it wasn’t from Lily’s room. It was too faint, as if from a distance. Then came Lily’s cry, a sharp, frightened wail. I sprinted up the stairs. Lily was sitting up in bed, eyes wide, pointing to the corner where Boppy sat on its shelf. ‘It talked, Daddy. It said its name, but I didn’t touch it.’ I picked up the toy. The button was stiff, but I pressed it. Nothing. The batteries were dead; I knew because they’d been faded for weeks. I put it on the floor, out of reach, and stayed until Lily slept. I didn’t sleep that night.

Months passed. Winter turned to spring, and the incident receded into the background of daily life. Then came the afternoon I was in the attic, searching for a box of old photo albums. The attic was a dusty, cobwebbed space, cluttered with forgotten belongings. I had just pulled down a box labeled ‘Baby Things’ when I knocked over a stack of old children’s books. From beneath them, I spotted a plastic train, a bright red engine with peeling stickers. I had no memory of ever seeing it. I picked it up. It was old, maybe from the previous owners. And it was heavy, as if something was jammed inside. I turned it over. The battery compartment was empty. I set it aside, intending to throw it away, and continued my search. That night, as I lay in bed, the house settling, I heard a rumble from above. It was low, almost like furniture being dragged across the ceiling. Then a series of electronic beeps and chimes, muffled but unmistakable: the train’s sound effects. My blood went cold. I grabbed a flashlight and climbed into the attic. The red train was exactly where I had left it, on the floor, but the batteries were still not there. A thin layer of dust covered everything, and in the dust, I saw faint circular marks around the toy, as if it had spun in place. I put it in a sealed plastic bag and, the next morning, drove it to the town dump and watched it disappear into the compactor.

A week later, I was preparing dinner, and the intercom system that connected the rooms, which had never worked, suddenly clicked on. A high-pitched, distorted voice whispered, ‘Boppy is here to help.’ Then a childlike giggle. I dropped the knife. I ran upstairs. Lily was in her room, playing with her plastic animals. She looked up and said, ‘Daddy, the walls are talking today.’ I grabbed her and felt a chill. That night, I packed a bag and called my sister. We left at 2 a.m. and never returned. I sold the house at a loss, never telling the new buyers about the sounds, about the attic, about the voice that promised help but offered only fear. To this day, I still hear that chime in my dreams, and I wonder if the house has found a new child to play with.