The Hand in the Loft

November 11, 2013

by Noemie

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (413 words)

"I was lying awake in my grandmother’s attic, the narrow bed pushed against the sloping ceiling. The house had been in our family for decades, but the attic had always been a storage space, filled with dusty boxes and forgotten furniture. I was staying there because my own room was being repainted, and the fumes […]"

I was lying awake in my grandmother’s attic, the narrow bed pushed against the sloping ceiling. The house had been in our family for decades, but the attic had always been a storage space, filled with dusty boxes and forgotten furniture. I was staying there because my own room was being repainted, and the fumes were unbearable. I had always loved that house, but that night, the attic felt different. It smelled of old paper and mothballs, and the wooden beams creaked as the house settled.

I had been struggling with a heavy heart, the weight of a recent breakup pressing down on me. Tears had slipped silently onto the pillow, and I had been staring blankly at the wall, trying to find some semblance of peace. My long, dark hair was splayed out behind me, cascading over the edge of the mattress and onto the dusty floorboards. I was lying on my right side, facing the wall, hoping that sleep would eventually claim me.

It was then that I felt it. A hand—cold, with long, thin fingers—grabbed a fistful of my hair, not at the ends, but right at the root, near the crown of my head. It yanked, hard, pulling my head back and then releasing just as suddenly. The pain was sharp, but the terror was far worse. My eyes flew open, and I froze, my heart pounding against my ribs. I didn’t move. I didn’t dare to turn my head. I just lay there, barely breathing, for what felt like hours.

The rest of the night was a blur of terror. I didn’t sleep. I listened to every creak and whisper of the old house, my mind conjuring images of something lurking in the shadows. When dawn finally crept through the small window, I forced myself to sit up, my legs trembling. I looked around the attic, but there was nothing out of place. Just the piles of junk, the dust motes dancing in the morning light, and me, still shaking.

I never told anyone about that night. I didn’t want to seem crazy, and my family had never spoken of anything strange in that house. But every time I walked past the attic door, I felt a chill. And every time I brushed my long hair, I remembered the cold, relentless grip on my scalp, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had been waiting in the attic that night, and why it had chosen me.

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