The Folder in the Attic

My name is Maya, and I’m sixteen now, but this happened when I was fourteen, back in the autumn of 2010. I lived in a small town called Ashford, nestled in the damp, green hills of Oregon. My best friend at the time was a girl named Clara. She was the youngest of five kids, and all her older siblings had moved out, leaving her alone in that big, creaky Victorian house with her parents. Clara and I had been inseparable since seventh grade, and that year we thought we were so mature, so ready for anything.

One rainy Saturday, Clara’s parents were out for the day, and we were rummaging through the attic, looking for old Halloween decorations. The attic was a cluttered maze of dusty trunks, broken furniture, and forgotten boxes. As we sifted through a pile of old photo albums, Clara found a small, metal lockbox tucked behind a stack of musty books. It wasn’t locked, just held shut by a rusty clasp. We opened it, and inside was a single manila folder, the kind used for school records.

We pulled out the folder and flipped through it. It contained a series of newspaper clippings, all yellowed and brittle, from about thirty years ago. The headlines screamed about a fire that had destroyed an orphanage just outside of town. The clippings detailed how the fire had claimed the lives of nineteen children and two staff members. The cause was listed as ‘undetermined,’ but one article hinted at a possible electrical fault. At the bottom of the folder, there was a photograph, a group shot of the children in front of the orphanage. They were all smiling, except for one girl in the back, who stared directly at the camera with an unsettling, blank expression.

Clara’s face went pale. She whispered, ‘My grandmother used to tell me stories about that place. She said the fire wasn’t an accident. She said it was a punishment.’ I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but Clara wasn’t laughing. She carefully took the photo out and turned it over. On the back, written in faded ink, was a list of names, and next to each name, a date. The dates were all in the past, and they marked when each child had died. We noticed that today’s date was circled, and next to it was the name ‘Maya.’

I felt a cold chill run down my spine, but I forced a smile. ‘It’s just a prank,’ I said, hoping it was true. Clara wasn’t convinced. She pointed to a small, handwritten note at the bottom of the folder that we hadn’t noticed before. It said: ‘The fire was a cleansing, but the spirits remain. On the anniversary, they take one of the living to join them.’

We both felt a draft, even though all the windows were closed. The attic light flickered, and the air grew heavy. I suddenly felt like we weren’t alone. Clara grabbed my arm and whispered, ‘We need to get out of here.’ But as we turned to leave, we heard a faint, childish laughter echoing from the corner of the attic, near a pile of old toys. We froze. The laughter grew louder, and then we heard a voice, clear as day: ‘Why are you taking our folder?’

We spun around, but there was nothing there. The toys were still. Clara’s face was white, and she was shaking. ‘We have to put it back,’ she said, her voice trembling. I nodded, and we carefully placed the folder back into the lockbox, but just as we closed it, the lid snapped shut on its own, and a loud bang echoed through the house. We ran down the attic stairs, our hearts pounding, and didn’t stop until we were outside, gasping for breath in the cold, rain-soaked air.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the photo and the circled date. I told myself it was just a coincidence, a sick joke. But at 3:00 AM, I was awakened by a strange scratching sound at my window. I pulled back the curtain, and there, pressed against the glass, was a handprint, small and sooty, as if from a fire. I stumbled back, and then I saw a face, a girl’s face, peering in at me with that same blank expression from the photograph. I screamed, but she was gone.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The next morning, I called Clara, but her mother answered, saying Clara was in the hospital. She had been found unconscious in her room, with burn marks on her arms that looked like fingerprints. I was terrified, and I knew I had to go back to that attic. I had to destroy the folder, or maybe find a way to end this.

I rode my bike to Clara’s house, but her parents were there, so I snuck around the back and climbed the old oak tree that reached the attic window. The window was unlocked, a stroke of luck. I climbed inside, and the attic felt even colder than before. The lockbox was where we’d left it, but it was open. The folder was lying on the floor, as if waiting for me. I opened it, and the photo was still there, but now the circle around my name was darker, and there were additional marks, like tally lines, next to it. I heard a giggle behind me, and I turned to see a group of children’s silhouettes standing in the shadows, their eyes glowing faintly. They were all singed, their clothes charred, their faces pale and twisted.

One of them, the girl from the photo, stepped forward and spoke in a voice that sounded like crackling fire: ‘You’re next. The anniversary is tonight.’ I stumbled back, but they surrounded me. I clutched the folder to my chest and screamed, ‘Why me? I didn’t do anything!’ The girl tilted her head, a cruel smile spreading across her blackened lips. ‘You opened the folder. You let us out. Now you must join us.’

I ran, but they were fast. I barely made it out the attic window, landing hard on the wet ground. I ran home, the folder still in my hand. I locked my door, but I could feel their presence, humming in the air around me. I knew I had to burn the folder, but every time I lit a match, the flame sputtered out. Then I realized: the fire was their domain. They wanted me to burn. So instead, I decided to bury it, deep in the woods, where the earth was cold and wet.

I biked to the forest, the folder digging into my side. I found a clearing, away from any paths, and started to dig with my bare hands. The ground was stubborn, but I made a hole. As I dropped the folder in, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around, but there was no one there. But I heard a whisper: ‘It’s too late, Maya. You’re marked.’ I covered the hole with dirt and leaves, and I ran. I never looked back.

That was two years ago. I never told anyone the full story. Clara moved away, and we lost touch. But sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I catch a whiff of smoke, and I see a faint, childlike silhouette watching me from the corner of my vision. I know they’re still out there, waiting. And I know that on the anniversary of that fire, they will come for me again. But maybe, if I can keep the secret buried, I can delay the inevitable. Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll find me first. And when they do, I won’t be able to run.