The Clicks in the Attic

My sister Nina and I were housesitting for our eccentric Aunt Margo, who had left for a month-long retreat in the mountains. The house was a sprawling Victorian monstrosity on the outskirts of Maplewood, a town known for its dying apples and forgotten history. The air inside was thick with dust and the smell of mothballs, and every floorboard groaned like a tired old dog.

One evening, after a day of organizing Aunt Margo’s chaotic collection of antique clocks, I was in the kitchen fixing a cup of chamomile tea. Nina was in the library reading one of Margo’s leather-bound journals. That’s when I heard it: a sharp, rhythmic click, like a light switch being turned on and off, coming from the attic directly above the kitchen. The sound was precise–two clicks on, two clicks off–repeated four times, then silence. I shrugged it off, assuming it was the old house settling or a rat in the walls. I didn’t mention it to Nina, who was already jumpy about staying in such a creepy place.

The next night, we were both in the living room watching a movie. The power flickered, and then the sound returned. This time, it wasn’t just in the attic; it echoed through the walls, as if the entire house were clicking. Nina froze, her eyes wide. She looked at me and whispered, ‘Did you hear that? It’s like a light switch.’ I tried to play it cool, saying it was probably the faulty wiring that Aunt Margo had mentioned. But Nina was insistent. ‘No, it’s coming from the attic, and it’s rhythmic. It’s like someone is sending a message.’ She grabbed a flashlight and started heading toward the attic stairs. I followed, my heart pounding.

The attic door was at the end of the hallway, a small, cobweb-covered rectangle in the ceiling. Nina pulled the cord, revealing a fold-down ladder. We climbed up into the darkness. The attic was cluttered with old trunks, furniture draped in white sheets, and a rusty birdcage. The air was musty and cold. We stood there, listening. Nothing. Then, right behind us, the clicking started again, faster and more frantic. We spun around, but there was nothing. The sound seemed to come from all directions, bouncing off the rafters. Nina’s face went pale. ‘There’s something up here, we need to go.’ We scrambled down the ladder, and as we reached the bottom, the clicking stopped abruptly.

The next afternoon, while Nina was out getting groceries, I decided to explore the attic alone. I wanted to prove to myself that there was a rational explanation. I climbed up and began sifting through the boxes. I found an old radiogram, a vintage ham radio set, covered in dust. It was still plugged in, its dial set to a frequency marked ‘AP.’ I turned the volume knob, and a burst of static filled the room. Then, through the static, I heard a voice–a faint, whispering voice that sounded like a child. It said, ‘Please, let me out.’ I froze. The clicks started again, but this time they were synchronized with the voice, as if the radio were the source. I yanked the plug, and the silence was deafening.

That evening, I told Nina everything. She didn’t laugh; she looked at me with terror and said, ‘This house was built on the site of an old orphanage that burned down in the 1950s. Some say the children who died there never left.’ She pulled out Aunt Margo’s journal and flipped to a page. It read: ‘The clicks are a code. They’ve been asking for help for decades. But the radio is the only way to speak to them. Do not answer.’

But we had already broken that rule. That night, as we tried to sleep, the clicking returned, now coming from inside the walls of our own bedrooms. It grew louder and faster, and then the lights began to flicker. We huddled in the hallway, and I realized the pattern was different: it spelled out words in Morse code. ‘GET OUT’ it tapped, over and over. We didn’t wait. We grabbed our bags and ran to the car, but as we drove away, the clicks followed us–not from the house, but from the glove compartment. Nina screamed. I slammed the brakes, and we both got out. The car was silent. But when we opened the glove box, we found Aunt Margo’s ham radio, its dial glowing, and a small engraved plaque: ‘For the children, with love. They will always have a voice.’

The clicks haven’t stopped since. They follow us everywhere–in the rain, in the quiet of our new apartment. Sometimes, when it’s dark, I hear that faint whisper mixed with the static: ‘Why did you leave without saying goodbye?’ I don’t know who’s speaking. But I know they’re not children anymore.