The attic key felt colder than it should in my palm. I’d never been up there, but the scratching had started again. Every night, 3 AM. A frantic, desperate sound, like tiny nails on wood.
Heart hammering, I pushed the key into the lock. It turned with a rusty screech. The door swung inward on its own, revealing a cavern of shadows and dust motes dancing in my flashlight beam. The air was thick and stale.
And then I saw it. In the far corner, shrouded in an old sheet, was a child’s rocking chair. It was moving. Slowly, rhythmically. Back and forth.
The scratching had stopped the moment I entered.
A cold dread poured down my spine. I took a step back, my light trembling over the floorboards. That’s when I saw them—small, muddy footprints leading from the chair… and stopping right behind me. I could feel a cold breath on the back of my neck. The rocking slowed, then ceased. I wasn't alone in the attic anymore. I was standing between it and the door. And the tiny, cold hand was slowly closing around my ankle.
stake ID:brizle1900