Whispers in the Attic

The first time Emily heard it, she thought it was just the wind.

A soft whisper. Faint, almost delicate. She had been in her bedroom, reading before bed, when the noise drifted down from the attic above. It wasn’t the usual creaking of old wood but something… different. Like a voice.

She shook it off. It’s just the house settling. That’s what her father always said.

But the next night, it happened again.

Lying in bed, she listened. A whisper, just above her. Words too faint to understand, but undeniably human.

Emily sat up, heart pounding. Maybe a raccoon got in. But no animal whispered.

Summoning her courage, she slid out of bed and tiptoed to the hallway. The attic hatch loomed above, the pull-string swaying slightly, as if recently disturbed.

She reached for it.

“Emily.”

She froze.

The whisper had spoken her name.

She stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. This wasn’t her imagination. Someone—or something—was in the attic.

“Mom! Dad!” she screamed, bolting to their bedroom. She shook her father awake.

“Emily? What is it?” he muttered groggily.

“The attic—there’s something up there!”

Her father sighed and sat up. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing in the attic. It’s just an old house making noise.”

“It said my name,” she whispered.

That made him pause. He frowned, then swung his legs over the bed. “Alright. Let’s check it out.”

They stood beneath the attic hatch. Her father pulled the string, and the wooden ladder creaked as it extended. A cold draft spilled down.

Emily hugged herself, suddenly unsure if she wanted to know what was up there.

Her father climbed halfway up and shone his flashlight inside. “Nothing,” he called down. “No animals, no ghosts. Just old boxes and dust.”

But then—

A whisper.

Emily clamped a hand over her mouth as the voice slithered down, low and sweet. “Don’t go,” it crooned.

Her father went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head.

The flashlight flickered.

In the dim light, Emily saw something behind him.

A shape, pale and hunched, curled in the attic’s shadows. Long, spindly fingers clutched the wooden beams. A grin stretched across a hollow face, black eyes wide and hungry.

The whisper came again. “Stay with me.”

Her father screamed.

The attic hatch slammed shut.

Emily stumbled back as the ladder snapped up, sealing itself as if it had never been opened.

“Dad?!” she shrieked.

Silence.

She pounded against the ceiling. “Dad, come back!”

Nothing.

Her mother came running, finding Emily sobbing beneath the attic. They pulled and yanked, but the hatch refused to budge.

The next morning, the attic was empty.

No sign of her father. No sign he had ever been there at all.

But at night, when the house grew quiet, Emily could still hear the whispers.

And sometimes, just sometimes, her father whispered back.