The Grinning Figure in the Attic

My childhood was spent in a creaky Victorian house that backed onto an old, neglected cemetery. The house belonged to my grandparents, and my room was on the second floor, directly above the parlor. I was a nervous child, plagued by nightmares, so I often ended up in my grandparents’ bed, sandwiched between their warmth and the cold drafts that whispered through the house. My grandmother would stroke my hair and hum old hymns, but the comfort never lasted long. There was a particular corner in their room, near the heavy oak wardrobe, that always seemed darker than the rest, as if it swallowed the light. I would stare at it, holding my breath, waiting for something to move.

One night, when I was eight, I woke to a suffocating stillness. The room was pitch black, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of my grandparents. I turned my head toward the corner, and my blood turned to ice. A figure stood there, impossibly tall, draped in a black cloak that seemed to absorb the darkness. It had no face, just a void, but I could feel it staring at me. It took a step forward, and the floorboards didn’t creak. Another step, and it was beside the bed, leaning over me. Its face, if I could call it that, was inches from mine, and I felt a cold breath that smelled of damp earth and decay. I opened my mouth to scream, but only a strangled gasp came out. Finally, I let out a blood-curdling scream that tore at my throat. The figure vanished, and my grandparents jolted awake, my grandmother flipping on the lamp. ‘What is it, love?’ she asked, her eyes wide with concern. I sobbed, telling them about the dark figure, but they exchanged a worried glance. My grandfather said, ‘There’s nothing there, sweetie. Just a nightmare.’ I insisted, but they didn’t believe me. The next morning, I asked my grandmother why she hadn’t helped me, why she hadn’t screamed. She said, ‘We didn’t hear anything, dear. You were sleeping peacefully until you screamed.’ But I knew what I had seen.

Years passed, and I tried to forget that night, but the image of that faceless figure stayed with me. When I was eleven, I finally felt brave enough to move back into my own room. It was a small room at the end of the hall, with a slanted ceiling and a small window that overlooked the cemetery. The first night, I lay in bed, staring at the shadows cast by the moonlight. I must have drifted off, because I was suddenly awake, and the room was freezing. I felt a presence, a weight on the foot of my bed. I looked down, and there was a shadowy shape, like a man sitting on the edge of the mattress, but it was formless, a swirl of darkness. It spoke, its voice like gravel sliding over stone, ‘You see me now.’ I couldn’t move, paralyzed with terror. It seemed to smile, though it had no mouth. Then it dissolved into the air. I screamed, and my grandfather burst in. He saw the look on my face and paled. He sat on my bed and said, ‘I’ve seen it too, the figure in the corner of our room. It came to me when I was a boy, same as you. I was sleeping in my parents’ bed, and it stood in the corner. It came close, and I screamed, but no one heard.’ He looked at me, his eyes old and frightened. ‘It knows we can see it. It feeds on our fear. But I’ve noticed over the years, it only appears when we’re in that bed, or in this house. It’s tied to the cemetery out back, I think. It’s been here for a long time.’

After that, I began to see it everywhere. In the hallways at night, a flicker of darkness at the edge of my vision. In my room, standing by the window, watching me with its non-existent eyes. I would feel it breathing on my neck when I was alone. My grandmother, being a practical woman, refused to acknowledge it. She thought we were both seeing things, that it was a family curse of overactive imaginations. But my grandfather and I knew better. We started marking the days it appeared, and we noticed a pattern: it always came on the nights of the full moon. So we prepared. We bought salt and iron, sage, and even tried to bless the house, but nothing worked. The figure would just appear, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, but always watching.

One night, when I was fifteen, I woke to find myself in my grandparents’ bed again, as if I was eight once more. I was between them, and I could feel a cold presence in the corner. The wardrobe was open, and I could see a dark shape inside. It was the figure, now with a face. It was gaunt, with sunken cheeks and a wide grin that stretched too far, full of needle-sharp teeth. It stepped out of the wardrobe and shuffled toward the bed. I tried to scream, but no sound came. My grandparents were asleep, unaware. The figure knelt down so its face was level with mine, and it whispered, ‘I have been waiting for you to grow. Now, you are ready.’ It reached out a bony hand and touched my forehead, and I felt a searing cold flood through me. I woke up screaming, and this time my grandparents did hear, but they were grey and shaking. ‘We saw it too, this time,’ my grandmother whispered. ‘It’s got a face now.’ I had a fever for days, and when I recovered, I could see the spirit world clearly. I saw ghosts wandering the cemetery, heard whispers at night, and felt the cold fingers of the dead on my skin. The figure, I now understood, was a harbinger, a guide for the dead, and it had claimed me as its apprentice.

I am now the keeper of the cemetery, a paranormal investigator, and the only one who can communicate with the spirits. My grandfather passed away, but I still see him sometimes, standing at the edge of the graveyard, smiling gently. The grinning figure still appears, but it no longer frightens me. It led me to my true purpose. And I know that when my time comes, it will be there to welcome me with its terrible smile, and I will walk into the dark without fear.