The Spinning Propeller

I never told my parents about the things that happen in our new house. They would have called it imagination, or stress from my final year of high school. But I knew better. It started small, like the missing photographs. I had a stack of polaroids from a camping trip with friends, and one by one, they vanished. I’d find them days later tucked into the pages of a book I hadn’t opened in months, or under my pillow, or in the freezer. My parents chalked it up to my forgetfulness, but I always felt a chill when I found them, as if a cold hand had just let go.

But the real trouble began when I discovered the attic. It wasn’t accessible from the main house, only through a trapdoor in the ceiling of my closet. I had never noticed it before, but one night, a draft blew the door open, and I saw the wooden rungs leading up into darkness. Curiosity got the better of me, and I climbed. The attic was cluttered with old furniture, boxes of yellowed papers, and strange relics from previous owners. That’s where I found the airplane model. It was a vintage balsa wood biplane, its paint peeling, its propeller intact. It hung from a beam by a thin wire, and I was immediately drawn to it.

I started going up there at night, after my parents were asleep. I would sit on a dusty crate and just watch the model. It would hang still, but sometimes, when I blinked, it would be in a slightly different position. I told myself it was the draft. But one night, I touched it. Just a gentle push with my finger. The propeller spun, and the plane began to sway. Then it started to move on its own, faster and faster, until the whole model was jerking violently on its wire, as if trying to escape. I felt a cold pressure on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The plane hung motionless, and I was left gasping, my heart pounding.

I didn’t go back for a week. But the presence didn’t leave me alone. It started with small things in my room: my alarm clock would go off at 3 AM, my socks would be scattered across the floor, and I’d hear scratching inside my walls. Then one night, I woke to find the model plane on my dresser, its propeller spinning slowly, even though there was no power source. The next morning, I found it back in the attic, but now it had a new feature: a small, blood-red stain on its wing.

I decided to investigate the house’s history. I found an old newspaper article from the 1920s. The original owner, a man named Elias Thorne, was a recluse who built model airplanes. He was found dead in his study, with one of his models crushed in his hands. The cause of death was never determined. I also discovered that the house had been built on the site of a failed airfield, where a pilot had died in a crash. I began to think the spirit was the pilot, or maybe Thorne, and it was connected to the airplane model. It wanted attention, or maybe it wanted to finish something.

I tried to remove the model from the house. I wrapped it in a cloth and drove to a remote forest, burying it under an old oak. That night, I felt a sense of peace. But in the morning, my hands were covered in dirt, and the model was back in the attic, now with two red stains. The spirit was getting more violent. I started to hear heavy footsteps in the attic at night, even when I was in my room. My closet door would swing open by itself, and I’d see the trapdoor hanging down, the rungs inviting me up.

I knew I had to go up there one last time. I took my father’s lighter, determined to burn the model and end this. As I climbed, the air grew colder, and the stairs creaked under my weight. The attic was darker than usual, and the model plane was in the center of the room, its propeller spinning at an insane speed. As I approached, the spinning stopped, and I heard a voice, a barely audible whisper: ‘Fly with me.’ The model lifted off the ground and flew straight at my face. I stumbled back, and it crashed into the wall, shattering. But the pieces rose in the air and reassembled, now with a third red stain.

I ran, but the house seemed to shift. The hallway was longer, and I couldn’t find my room. I heard laughter echoing through the walls. I finally burst into my parents’ bedroom, but they were gone. The bed was empty, and the sheets were cold. I ran downstairs, and I saw them sitting at the kitchen table, not moving, not even blinking. I screamed, but they didn’t react. I tried to shake them, but they were like statues. Then I heard the propeller again, coming from the attic above. The trapdoor in the ceiling of the kitchen opened, and a ladder descended. On it was the model plane, now with many red stains, and a figure made of shadows at the top, gesturing for me to climb.

I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I opened them to find myself in the attic, holding the model plane. Its propeller was still, and the red stains were gone. I realized I was the one covered in red, and the shadow figure was my own reflection in a cracked mirror. I had become the haunted. I had become the one who couldn’t leave. Now I wait every night, watching the attic door, knowing that when I die, I’ll be the one to spin the propeller for the next person who finds this house. And I’ll make sure they never leave.