The Unlatched Oak

I’m writing this from the window seat in my grandmother’s attic, the only room in this house that still feels safe. The rest of the old farmhouse has become a maze of shifting shadows and whispered warnings, and I can’t shake the feeling that something has been waiting for me here.

It started three nights ago, when I was still in the guest bedroom. I had just moved in to care for my ailing grandmother, who is bedridden on the ground floor. The house is a sprawling Victorian relic, with thick oak doors and drafty hallways that carry every sound. I was reading in bed, the lamp casting a warm circle on the pages, when I heard a low murmur from the other side of the door. I paused, listening. The murmur grew into a chorus of angry voices, like men arguing over something I couldn’t understand. I told myself it was just the wind, or maybe some neighborhood dispute carrying through the thin walls. But the voices were too distinct, too near.

I got up and pressed my ear to the door. The noise stopped abruptly, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. Then, without any touch, the door swung inward. It was a heavy oak door, with brass hinges and a latch that clicked when closed. I hadn’t locked it, but it was firmly shut. It moved slowly, as if pushed by an unseen hand, and stopped halfway, leaving me staring into the dark hallway.

I should have slammed it shut, but my legs were frozen. The hallway was pitch black, but I could feel a presence there, waiting. That’s when I remembered the face. Two weeks earlier, I had seen an old woman’s face in the mirror above the dresser. It was wrinkled and pale, with milky eyes that seemed to look right through me. She was there for a split second before vanishing. A male voice had then whispered in my right ear, so close I felt his breath: ‘Let me introduce myself.’ I had dismissed it as a hallucination, a trick of the light. But now, standing before the open door, I knew it was real.

I slammed the door and leaned against it, my heart hammering. The voices started again on the other side, but this time they were laughing. A low, guttural laugh that seemed to shake the floorboards. I fled to the attic, where I’ve been ever since. I brought my mattress up here, along with a flashlight and some food. I haven’t slept much. Every few hours, I hear footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate. They stop at the attic door, and I hear a rasping breath on the other side. Sometimes, the doorknob rattles, but it’s an old latch, and it holds.

Last night, I worked up the courage to peek through the keyhole. The hallway was empty, but on the wall opposite, I saw a shadow that was not mine. It was tall and gaunt, with long fingers that seemed to reach for the door. I yanked my eye away, but the shadow has stayed with me, flickering at the edge of my vision even in the daylight that filters through the attic’s small window.

My grandmother’s nurse called this morning, asking if I was okay. I told her I was fine, just settling in. I didn’t tell her about the door or the voices. She would think I’m crazy. But I know what I saw. And I know this house is not empty.

I’ve been trying to make sense of it. The house was built by my great-grandfather, a stern man who kept secrets. There are old family stories about a servant girl who disappeared in the 1920s, her body never found. Some say she wanders the halls, looking for her lost child. Others say it’s the ghost of my great-grandmother, who was said to be a cold and jealous woman. I never believed those tales, but now I wonder if they were warnings.

This afternoon, I heard my grandmother’s bell ring from downstairs. She needed help. I crept down the stairs, past the guest bedroom where the door was now ajar. I didn’t look inside, but I heard a woman’s whisper: ‘Come in.’ I ignored it and hurried to the kitchen. My grandmother was sitting up, her eyes wide with fear. She grabbed my hand with a grip that shocked me. ‘You’re not safe in the attic,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘It wants you. It’s been waiting for a new body.’

I asked what she meant, but she just shook her head and closed her eyes. The nurse came in, and I slipped away. I’m back in the attic now, writing this. The sun is setting, and the shadows are growing long. I don’t know if I’ll make it through the night. The door is latched, but I heard it creak a moment ago, as if something leaned against it from the other side. I’m not sure if I’m going to survive this, but if you’re reading this, please believe me: there are things that don’t obey the rules of our world. And they are patient.

I just heard a thud against the attic door, followed by a long scrape, like nails dragging down the wood. I’m going to move the wardrobe in front of it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to write again. If not, tell my grandmother I’m sorry, and I should have listened to her warnings. The latch on the door is old, but it’s all I have. The oak door in the guest room is still open below, and I can feel the draft of cold air climbing up the stairs, bringing with it a whisper of a name I barely remember.

Someone is whispering. I think it’s my name. But I’m the only one here.