The Whisper in the Attic

Alex discovers a secret in the new house attic.

When Alex Carrington first stepped out of the truck and into the bitter wind of North Dakota, he hated everything. The town was barely a smudge on the map; a cluster of buildings surrounded by endless frozen fields and skeletal trees. Gone were the beach bonfires, the warmth of California sun, and, most importantly, his friends. Instead, he had a crumbling old house inherited by his mother from a great uncle he'd never met, a younger brother who thought they were on some grand expedition, and the bone deep ache of resentment.

The house loomed at the end of a narrow gravel road, a relic of another century. It creaked when the wind blew, groaned when someone walked down the hallway, and sighed when the temperature dropped. His mother said it was just "settling." Alex wasn’t so sure.

“It’s kind of cool, don’t you think?” Jason said, bounding up the stairs with a flashlight in hand. “There’s an attic! I bet it’s full of old stuff.”

Alex rolled his eyes and kept dragging boxes through the snow covered porch.
Their mother tried her best to keep spirits high. She was worn, always tired, and her eyes betrayed more stress than she let on. She smiled anyway. “It’s not what we wanted, but it’s what we have,” she told them. “We’ll make it work.”

Alex didn’t reply. Not because he didn’t care, but because he was afraid that if he said anything, it would come out as anger, and he couldn’t put more weight on her already slumped shoulders.

- - -

The first time it happened, Alex was half-asleep.

He’d left his window cracked open for some air. The whisper was faint, so faint he thought it was the wind.

Help me...

He sat up, blinking into the dark. Nothing. Just shadows dancing on the wall, and the soft creak of old wood under the weight of time.

- - -

The hauntings started small. Lights flickering. Doors opening and closing. Cold spots that made the hairs on your neck stand up. Jason thought it was “so awesome.” Their mom blamed the old wiring and drafty windows.

But Alex knew better.

One night, he saw her.

A girl, no older than sixteen, standing at the foot of his bed. Her dress was old fashioned, lace and buttons, stained and torn. Her eyes were hollow, sorrowful, and her voice barely more than a breath.

“The trunk. In the attic. Please...find me.”

He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move. He could only stare until she vanished like mist in the morning sun.

- - -

Alex did everything he could to ignore it. He told himself he was dreaming, told himself it was just the stress, the loneliness, the bitterness of being torn from everything familiar.

But she kept coming.

Sometimes he would wake up to find his closet door wide open, or his desk drawers rifled through. Once, he found her name Olivia Stansworth; scratched faintly into the wall behind his bed, hidden under peeling wallpaper.

He started searching.

The attic was the obvious place. It took him three days to even get the rusted ladder down from the ceiling hatch, and when he finally climbed up, the air was thick with dust and memory. Old furniture draped in sheets. Spider webs like drapes. And boxes...so many boxes.

He combed through them one by one. Newspapers from the 40s. Moth-eaten coats. A broken phonograph. He started to believe it was pointless.

Until he found the trunk.

It was shoved behind an old dresser, its brass hinges green with age. It was heavy, sealed with a latch that creaked loudly when he opened it.

Inside was decay. And the remains of a girl.

He stumbled backward, fell onto the attic floor, and scrambled away like an animal cornered by death. But the moment he blinked, she was there again. Olivia.

She was brighter now. Clearer. The despair still hung on her like a shroud, but she smiled just barely.

“Thank you.”

- - -

The police were called. There was an investigation. Turns out Olivia Stansworth had vanished in 1947. Her disappearance had remained a mystery, the town eventually letting her name slip into legend.

The old great uncle? He’d been a respected man in the community. Church going. Generous. Nobody suspected him.

Until now.

- - -

In the weeks after the trunk was removed, the house felt lighter. The lights stopped flickering. The cold spots disappeared. Jason lost interest in ghost stories.

Their mother cried the night Olivia was buried.

“She was just a kid,” she said, staring out the frosted window. “Someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister.”

Alex nodded. “She just wanted to be found.”

For the first time since moving, he didn’t feel angry. He felt...like maybe he was supposed to be there. Not as punishment, but as witness. As a hand reaching into the dark to pull someone out.

And sometimes, when the wind was just right, he could still hear her.

Not a whisper of sorrow, but a sigh of peace.


Written for: "The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: "

WINNER & New Prompt - Due Friday 5/23"