The Pacing in the Attic

I’ve been living in this old Victorian house on Hemlock Lane for the better part of a decade. My parents are overseas, so it’s just me and my great-aunt Matilda. She’s a sprightly woman of seventy-five, with a laugh that fills the whole house and a penchant for baking bread on Sundays. The house itself is a maze of creaking floorboards, drafty windows, and a sprawling attic that we seldom use.

Last Tuesday, I was in the claw-foot tub, soaking away the chill that had settled in my bones, when I heard it—a heavy, rhythmic thumping directly above me. The attic. It sounded like someone was pacing back and forth, the floorboards groaning under their weight. My first thought was Matilda, but then I recalled the attic ladder had been coiled on the ceiling since winter. There was no way she had pulled it down without me hearing the clatter.

I stepped out of the bath, wrapped a towel around me, and cracked open the bathroom door to peer down the hall. The attic hatch was flush against the ceiling, the ladder undisturbed. From below, I could hear Aunt Matilda’s chuckles as she watched her favorite sitcom. The pacing continued, slow and deliberate, like a caged animal. My heart hammered as I threw on my clothes and bolted down the stairs.

‘There’s someone in the attic!’ I blurted out, breathless. Matilda looked up from the TV, her eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Oh, you and your fancies, love. It’s just the pipes or a squirrel.’ But I shook my head, my voice trembling as I insisted, ‘I heard footsteps, Matilda. Distinct footsteps.’ Her smile faded, and she set down her tea. ‘Well, let’s have a look-see, shall we?’

We stood in the hallway, staring up at the attic hatch. Matilda pulled the cord, and the ladder descended with a groan. She climbed up first, and I followed close behind. The attic was dim, lit only by a single bare bulb hanging from a beam. Boxes of old Christmas ornaments, moth-eaten coats, and a dusty rocking horse cluttered the space. But there was no one. The dust on the floor showed no footprints other than our own. ‘See? Nothing but dust and memories,’ Matilda said, her voice echoing oddly.

As her words died out, the pacing started again. It was directly beneath our feet, but we were standing on the attic floor, and the sound came from behind the wall at the far end. Matilda’s face went pale. ‘That’s impossible,’ she whispered. We both stared at the wall, which was lined with old floral wallpaper. I noticed a faint outline of a door, seams barely visible. ‘There’s a room back there?’ I asked. Matilda shook her head. ‘I’ve never known of one.’

We descended the ladder, my mind racing. The next night, I couldn’t sleep. The pacing resumed around 2 AM, and this time it was heavier, more insistent. I tiptoed to the attic, my mother’s old flashlight in hand. The ladder groaned under my weight as I climbed. The bulb flickered, and the corner of my eye caught a shadow moving along the wall. I turned, but saw nothing. The pacing stopped the moment my foot hit the attic floor. I scanned the space, my flashlight beam tracing over boxes, but the beam caught something glinting in a crack between two floorboards. It was a small, brass key, tarnished with age.

I pocketed the key and descended, my mind buzzing. The next morning, I showed it to Matilda. She turned it over in her hands, her brow furrowed. ‘This looks like it fits the old spice cabinet in the kitchen,’ she said. We tried it, and sure enough, the key turned the lock on the dusty cabinet. Inside, instead of spices, was a folded piece of yellowed paper, brittle with age. It was a letter, dated 1895, written by a former owner of the house. It read: ‘To whoever finds this, do not, I repeat, do not open the hidden door in the attic. I sealed it to keep out the thing that paces. It is restless, and it hungers for the living.’

We both stared at each other, a cold dread settling in the room. The pacing started again, this time from the attic, but louder, as if something was descending. The floorboards above us creaked, and we heard the unmistakable sound of a door being thrown open. Matilda grabbed my arm, and we ran for the front door, her jolly laughter gone, replaced by a stifled sob. We never returned, and to this day, I can still hear that pacing in my nightmares, waiting for me to come back.