Whispers from the dust

Search for answers leads to doing the forbidden

Whispers from the Dust

          The attic smelled of dust and old wood, the single bulb flickering like a dying heartbeat. I wasn't supposed to be up here. Mom always said the floorboards were rotten, that it was a death trap. But the box labeled "Dad - Do Not Open " had called to me for years. Today, I climbed.

          Each step groaned beneath me. The ladder shuddered, and for a second, I froze, imagining it snapping, leaving me stranded or worse. But I kept climbing, heart thudding, until I tumbled onto the warped floorboards. Moonlight seeped through a grimy window, casting long shadows.

          The box was tucked beneath the eaves, wrapped in twine tied in a tight, complex knot, Dad's sailor's knot, Mom used to say he tied everything that way. I pulled a pocketknife free and sawed at it. The twine gave way with a soft snap.

          Inside, there were no photos, no letters. Just a small, carved wooden bird and a folded map of the woods behind our house. I unfolded it; there, circled in red, was a spot near the ravine. And beneath it, three words: She's not gone.

          I stood, clutching the map, when I heard a soft creak behind me. The attic door, which I'd left open, now inched shut. Something scraped across the floor, though I was alone.

          Panic surged. I turned to climb back down, but the ladder swayed, disconnected at the top. I was trapped.

          Then I noticed it: another knot on the floorboard near the door, freshly tied, still damp. A warning? A sign?

          My breath hitched. The map trembled in my hand. Whoever--or whatever--left that note wasn't done.

          I'll find the ravine tomorrow. Even if it meant another climb. Even if it was a trap.

Word Count: 292