The Lantern in the Attic

When I was nine, my family moved into the old Millbrook House, a creaking Victorian relic on the edge of a dying town. My parents thought it was charming; my older brother and sister thought it was an adventure. I thought it was a mistake, but I couldn’t say why. It was just a feeling, like a cold draft in a sealed room.

At first, nothing happened. But soon, I noticed that the attic door was always slightly ajar, no matter how many times I pushed it shut. And at night, I could hear a faint scratching, like dry branches against a window, but all the windows faced the empty yard. The worst part was the lantern. Every evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, a soft amber glow would flicker through the attic’s round window, as if someone was moving a candle back and forth.

I told my parents, but they said it was just a reflection from the streetlight. My brother, Mark, called me a coward. My sister, Emily, said I was trying to get attention. So I started sleeping on the floor in Emily’s room, huddled under her desk, because my own room felt wrong. But no matter where I was, I felt watched. When I turned quickly, I’d catch a glimpse of a thin, dark shape slipping behind the wardrobe or the curtain.

The breaking point came on a rainy October night. My parents had invited Uncle Ray and Aunt Lola over for dinner. We ate in the dining room, and I was grateful for the laughter and clinking forks. After the meal, we moved to the living room to watch a scary movie. I loved scary movies, but that night, every shadow seemed to move. Mark and Emily yawned and went to bed around ten. I wanted to go too, but I was terrified of being alone, so I stayed.

An hour later, my eyes were heavy, but I couldn’t sleep. The movie was ending, and my parents were talking low with Uncle Ray and Aunt Lola. I decided to make a dash for Emily’s room. As I stood up, I saw it: from the hallway leading to the stairs, a pale, thin hand with impossibly long fingers curled around the doorframe. It pulled back, but I saw a flicker of the lantern’s glow from the attic above.

I must have gasped, because Aunt Lola turned and asked, ‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ I pointed, but of course, nothing was there. My mother sighed and said, ‘Go to bed, you’re overtired.’ I was too scared to argue. I crept upstairs, my heart pounding, and slipped into Emily’s room. She was already asleep, breathing softly. I lay on the floor, my back against the bed, and stared at the door.

Then I heard it: a slow, creaking footstep on the attic stairs. Then another. I wanted to scream, but my throat closed. The footsteps stopped right outside the door. I closed my eyes, praying, and then I felt a breath on my neck, cold and damp, like it came from a cave. I opened my eyes and saw the door had opened a crack. Through the gap, I saw the lantern, now floating at eye level, and behind it, a figure that was all angles and wrongness, with eyes like burnt holes.

I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the window. My mother was shaking me awake, saying, ‘What are you doing on the floor? You’ll catch a cold.’ I tried to tell her, but she just patted my head and said, ‘Maybe you shouldn’t watch so many scary movies.’

But I knew what I’d seen. I started carrying a small brass key I’d found in a drawer, believing it would protect me. I never told anyone again, but for the rest of my childhood, I never slept in my own bed. I always found a reason to be in a room with someone else. And the lantern in the attic still flickered every night, as if it was waiting for me to grow up and finally come to it alone.