The Urn in the Attic

I never believed in ghosts until I moved into the old farmhouse on Hemlock Road. My father and stepmother had found it after a cross-country move, a sprawling Victorian relic from the 1890s that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast before falling into disrepair. The previous owners had left behind most of their belongings, including a dusty attic filled with trunks and furniture. It was a fixer-upper, but my dad saw potential. I just saw a place where the floorboards creaked with every step and the windows rattled even when there was no wind.

My room was at the end of the second-floor hallway, a corner room with peeling wallpaper and a view of the overgrown garden. The first night, I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the unfamiliarity or the distant hoot of an owl. It was the feeling of being watched. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and after a while, I’d notice a faint smell of lavender, my mother’s perfume. She had passed away when I was nine, and I had kept a small bottle of her scent for years. But I had lost it during the move. The smell was unmistakable, and it grew stronger when I closed my eyes.

Night after night, the presence grew bolder. At first, it was just the smell. Then, I’d feel a cold draft, like a window had opened, but the windows were sealed shut. Eventually, I started hearing a soft humming, a tune my mother used to sing to me when I was sick. I’d jerk awake, heart pounding, to find the room empty. But the humming would continue, faint and melodic, until I turned on the light.

One night, I woke to find the room bathed in a pale, phosphorescent glow. The source was a figure standing at the foot of my bed. It was my mother, or the shape of her. But her face was blank, like a porcelain doll that had been wiped clean. She reached out a hand, and her fingers were impossibly long, brushing against my forehead. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, she was gone. But on my nightstand, there was a single lavender sprig, fresh and dripping with water.

I told my father, but he dismissed it as a dream. He was a pragmatic man, still grieving in his own way, but he thought my mind was playing tricks on me. So I decided to investigate on my own. I went into the attic, where the previous owners had stored their things. I was looking for any clue about the house’s history or maybe some indication of something supernatural. I found old photographs, letters, and a locked chest. It took me a while, but I managed to pry it open with a crowbar. Inside, wrapped in a moth-eaten shawl, was an urn, not gold, but dark, tarnished brass. There was a name engraved on it: Eleanor Vance. She had died in 1898, and the house had been built for her and her husband. According to a journal I found, Eleanor had died in childbirth, but the baby had survived. The journal was her husband’s, and it spoke of her ghost visiting him, trying to take the child.

A cold dread settled over me. The presence in my room wasn’t my mother; it was Eleanor. She had been trying to reach out to me, maybe because I was a young woman, or maybe because I was the only one willing to acknowledge her. But why the lavender? Was that just a coincidence? I decided to confront her. I took the urn into my room and placed it on my nightstand. That night, I lay awake, waiting. The smell of lavender was overwhelming. The temperature dropped. And then she appeared again, more distinct this time. Her face was still blank, but I could see her form, wearing a long, tattered dress. She pointed at the urn and then at me. I felt a pull, like something was trying to leave my body. I clutched my chest, gasping for air. Then, the urn began to vibrate, and the lid popped off. A black, oily smoke poured out and swirled around me. I felt it enter my mouth, nose, and ears. I gagged, but it was too late. My body grew cold, and I saw myself from above.

The entity had taken over. I was a spectator in my own body. I watched as ‘I’ walked to my mirror and smiled, but it wasn’t my smile; it was too wide, too thin. Then, ‘I’ walked out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen where my father was having a late-night snack. He looked up, startled. ‘Honey, are you okay? You look pale.’ The entity didn’t answer. It just stood there, staring. Then, it spoke, but with Eleanor’s voice, a ghostly whisper. ‘I see you’ve taken my home. But I’ve taken one of your own.’ My father dropped his glass, and it shattered. I screamed internally, but no sound escaped my lips. The entity laughed, a cold, hollow sound, and then walked back to my room.

I don’t know how long I was trapped in that silent prison. But eventually, the entity grew bored, or perhaps it found what it was looking for. It let go of my body, and I was back. I collapsed to the floor, gasping. The urn was intact, but the smell of lavender was gone. I took it, drove to the town’s cemetery, and buried it in an unmarked plot. As I patted the dirt down, I felt a release, a peace. But as I drove home, the radio crackled, and I heard a faint humming, my mother’s tune. I laughed, bitter. ‘Clever girl,’ I thought. ‘Eleanor, you’re not done with me yet.’

That was three years ago. I still live in that house, but I’ve never set foot in the attic. I’ve never touched another urn. And every night, I keep my grandmother’s silver cross on my nightstand. It does nothing, but it comforts me. Sometimes, I still smell lavender. And sometimes, late at night, I feel a cold presence in the corner of my room. But I refuse to look. I just pull the covers over my head and hum a different tune, one my mother never sang. I hope it keeps her away. But I know it’s not her. It’s Eleanor, and she’s patient.