The Crawlspace of December 27th

Let me introduce myself. I’m Daniel, born in 1991 in a dusty little town in New Mexico. I lost my parents and my sister before I turned twenty, so I moved to Portland, Oregon. I’ve lived alone ever since, in a two-story house on the outskirts of the city, near the forest. I have a degree in mechanical engineering and a passion for tinkering, which means my basement is a workshop, and my walls are lined with tools and gadgets I’ve built. I always felt safe because of my elaborate security system: motion sensors, cameras, and a panic room. But on the night of December 27th, something happened that shattered my sense of security.

I got home from my shift at the local tech firm around 6 PM. The rain was hammering down, as it often does in Portland. I shrugged off my coat, grabbed a leftover slice of vegan pizza from the fridge, and sat down at the kitchen table. The house was eerily quiet, save for the drumming of rain on the roof. Then I heard it: a thump, followed by a scraping sound. It came from the attic door in the hallway. I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. I convinced myself it was just the house settling, or a raccoon. But I’ve never had raccoons.

Feeling uneasy, I grabbed my 9mm from the drawer next to the sink and crept toward the hallway. The attic door was closed, but the pull-down ladder was slightly ajar, as if someone or something had recently used it. I flicked on the light, but the bulb in the hallway was dead. I stood there, listening. The scraping continued, slow and rhythmic, like fingernails dragging across wood. I shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ My voice echoed in the silence. The scraping stopped. Then a low, guttural chuckle echoed from above.

I should have called the police, but my pride and my paranoia told me to handle it myself. I climbed the ladder, my gun shaking in my hand. The attic was a dark, cramped space cluttered with old boxes and forgotten memories. I swept my flashlight across the room, but saw nothing. The air was stale and cold, carrying a hint of something metallic. I thought I saw a shadow shift behind a stack of boxes, but when I aimed my light, there was nothing. My heart was pounding. I decided to retreat, and as I descended, I heard the chuckle again, right behind me. I spun around, but the attic was empty.

I spent the next hour checking every room, every closet, every corner of my house. Nothing. I chalked it up to stress and a vivid imagination. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain. At 2:47 AM, I heard the scrape again. It was directly above me, in the attic. This time, it was accompanied by a rhythmic tapping, like a code. I grabbed my shotgun and headed to the attic door. I pulled the ladder down with a bang, ready to fire. But when I aimed my flashlight up, I saw something that made my blood run cold: a single, dirty footprint on the top step, too small to be mine, and facing down.

I called the police. They arrived in twenty minutes, but their search found nothing. No forced entry, no signs of intrusion. The officer suggested I get my carbon monoxide detectors checked. I laughed nervously and thanked them. But after they left, I noticed something odd: the attic door was open again, though I had shut it. And this time, there was a piece of paper taped to the frame. It was a crudely drawn map of my house, with a red circle around my bedroom and a note scrawled in a childlike hand: ‘We have lots of time.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in my living room, fully armed, watching the attic door. As dawn broke, I heard the sound of childish laughter, just outside my window. I ran to the window and saw a small silhouette dart into the trees. I grabbed my rifle and chased after it, but by the time I reached the edge of the forest, there was nothing but mist and the sound of my own ragged breath. I returned home, shaken, and called a friend who was a paranormal investigator. He said, ‘It sounds like you have a visitor. But the kind that doesn’t leave.’ He told me to ignore it, that it feeds on fear. But how could I ignore it?

Over the next few days, the occurrences escalated. Items would move on their own, lights would flicker, and I would hear whispers just at the edge of hearing. I set up cameras, but they only captured static. I placed salt lines at the doors, but they were disturbed. On December 29th, I found a message written in the dust on my coffee table: ‘You left the attic open.’ I had never closed it properly, I thought. I slammed it shut and nailed it. But that night, at 3:33 AM, I woke to the sound of the attic door creaking open. I grabbed my pistol and rushed to the hallway. The attic was pitch black, and the smell of decay washed over me. I flicked on the light, but it buzzed and died. I shone my flashlight into the darkness. There, at the far end, stood a small figure, cloaked in rags. It turned its head, and I saw that it had no face, just a smooth, pale skin. It raised a finger to where its mouth should be and let out a soft shush.

I fired. The bullet passed through the figure, hitting the wall behind it. The figure was gone, but the sound of chuckling filled the attic. I scrambled down the ladder and called the police. They arrived to find me shaking in the corner, my gun smoking. They found nothing, but they noticed something odd: the attic door was open, and the ladder was down, just as I had it. They recommended I see a therapist. I checked myself into a hotel for the night, but the next morning, I found the corner of a page sticking out from under the door. It was my own handwriting, but I had never written it. It said: ‘It knows where you hide.’

In desperation, I contacted a retired priest who specialized in exorcisms. He came to my house, walked through every room, and then stopped in front of the attic. He told me that there was a presence, ancient and not human, that had attached itself to this house, or perhaps to me. He performed a blessing and sprinkled holy water, but as he did, the attic door burst open, and a gale of cold wind blew out, extinguishing his candles. He left, pale and trembling, muttering that I should leave and never return. But how could I leave? I had nowhere else to go, and I was afraid that if I ran, it would follow.

I decided to confront it. I armed myself to the teeth and climbed into the attic for the last time. I stood among the boxes, shouting, ‘Show yourself! What do you want?’ For a long moment, silence. Then, the small figure appeared in the corner, slowly walking toward me. I raised my gun, but my hands were shaking. It stopped a few feet away, and this time, I could see a faint outline of features on its face, shifting like clouds. It spoke, in a voice that was not a voice but a feeling, ‘You left the door open. Now I can leave.’ It gestured behind me, and I turned to see the attic ladder retracting, the door slamming shut, and the lock engaging from the inside. I was trapped.

I screamed and pounded on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The figure watched, tilting its head. Then it dissolved into a wisp of smoke, leaving me alone in the dark. I used my tools and my strength, but the door was sealed as if fused. I tried to break through the ceiling, but the tools were useless. I had fallen for its trick. It had wanted me to open the attic, to confront it, to trap me. Now I was its prisoner.

I spent what felt like hours in that attic, cold and terrified. Then I noticed a small, dirty trapdoor in the floor, hidden under a rug. I pried it open and found a crawlspace, barely wide enough for a person. I saw a faint light at the other end. I crawled in, dragging my body through the dust and cobwebs. The space seemed to go on for far longer than my house should allow, and the walls felt like they were breathing. As I crawled, I heard my own voice whispering, ‘I’m so sorry.’ And then, I emerged into a room that was identical to my bedroom, but reversed, as if I had stepped into an alternate version of my house.

The room was dim, lit by a single hanging bulb. In the corner, a child sat on a bed, playing with a doll. The child had no face, but it turned to me and said, ‘You’re here. You finally came.’ I backed away, but the door behind me was gone. I was trapped in this wrong version of my home. The child stood up and walked toward me, its movements jerky. ‘I was lonely,’ it said. ‘You left me in the attic, and I waited. But now we can be together always.’ I screamed, but no sound came out. The child reached out a hand, and as it touched me, I felt a cold seep into my bones, and I saw my own reflection in a mirror across the room: my face was gone, replaced by a smooth, pale blankness.

Now, I sit in this endless house, writing this account in the hope that someone will find it. The child is my constant companion, and we wander through rooms that shift and change. Sometimes, I hear the rain outside, and I remember my old life. I know now that I was never safe, not really. The attic was always a door, and I opened it. If you are reading this, do not open your attic. Do not go into the crawlspace. And if you hear a child laughing in the dark, run, for it is too late for me.