**The Secrets of the Attic** I remember the stories that surrounded the attic, warnings from the family that came before us about how they had sealed it shut, claiming it was cursed. They never dared to open it again, and we, too, learned to ignore the peculiar noises that drifted through our house deep in the night—the scratching on the floor, the faint whispers, and those unsettling footsteps that lingered in the quiet. Over the years, the sounds crescendoed, a troubling presence creeping under our skin with each passing night. It felt like an ominous energy folded into our home, heavy and waiting, making even the bravest hearts shiver. Each twilight, I braced myself, unsure if I’d hear that unnerving rattle of the attic door. But tonight? Well, tonight was a game-changer. The door creaked open on its own, a chill flooding the air, sharp as ice. Then, out stepped a tall figure, gaunt and starved, its glowing eyes piercing the darkness. As it straightened, its bones cracked like old wood. It locked onto me with an unsettling gaze. I froze there, paralyzed—no scream escaped my lips, no movement from my limbs. The creature smiled, its intentions clear, and in that moment of sheer terror, it struck me: the sounds, the whispers, the footsteps—none were originating from the attic. They were never meant for the attic; they were coming for me.