The Lullaby in the Attic

The house in the hill town of Barog was supposed to be a family retreat—a week of mountain air and card games by the fire. But from the moment I stepped across its worn threshold, a cold dread wrapped around me like a damp shroud. It was a sprawling, ancient structure, all creaking beams and rooms that seemed to hold their breath. My parents, as usual, laughed off my unease, calling me oversensitive.

That first night, I lay awake in the guest bedroom, listening to the wind moan through the eaves. Then I heard it, a woman’s voice, soft and lilting, humming a tune I’d never heard before. It drifted from down the hall, from a room we’d thought was sealed. My heart pounded, but curiosity gnawed at me. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet cold on the floorboards, and followed the sound.

The door to the room at the end of the corridor stood ajar, a sliver of pale light spilling out. As I pushed it open, I saw a figure, translucent as smoke, rocking a cradle. She was humming the same lullaby, her voice echoing as though from a great depth. The smoke-like form turned its head toward me, and I saw its face—a woman with hollow eyes and a serene, hollow smile. Then it dissolved, leaving only the faint scent of lavender and dust.

I backed away, heart racing, and stumbled to my parents’ room. But when I burst in, their bed was empty. The sheets were cold, as if they’d been gone for hours. A panic seized me. I searched the house—living room, kitchen, the locked study—but found no one. The lullaby resumed, now louder, more urgent, echoing from every corner.

I climbed the creaking stairs to the attic, driven by a force I couldn’t name. The door was padlocked, but as I touched it, the lock fell away with a metallic clink. Inside, the attic was bare except for a single rocking chair. On the seat lay a yellowed photograph: a woman holding a swaddled baby, smiling. Beneath it, a note in faded ink: ‘For my daughter, who never grew old.’

Then I heard my mother’s voice from below, calling my name. I rushed down, but the stairwell twisted in ways it hadn’t before. When I finally reached the ground floor, my parents were in the kitchen, sipping tea as if nothing had happened. But the clock on the wall showed three days had passed—three days I couldn’t account for.

They had no memory of my absence, no recollection of the empty bed. But as I looked into their eyes, I saw not their familiar warmth but the same hollow glint I had seen in the phantom’s face. And in the silence that followed, I heard the lullaby once more, not from the attic, but from the lips of my own mother, humming a tune she could never have known.