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Chapter Two – Whispers in the Dark

The storm that night was louder than usual, a constant roar that rattled the old pipes and made the lamps flicker. By the time the lights went out completely, the younger children were already crying. Mrs. Wren lit candles and barked orders for blankets, and Ethan was sent to the attic to fetch more.

He climbed the narrow staircase, each step creaking under his weight. The candle in his hand shivered, the flame swaying in the drafts that whispered down from the rafters.

The attic smelled of mothballs and dust, the air so still it felt like holding your breath. Ethan pushed aside a stack of boxes and spotted a pile of old quilts in the corner.

That’s when he heard it—a faint, rhythmic scratching.

He froze, listening. It was coming from the far end.

The locked door.

Ethan’s mouth went dry. “Probably a rat,” he muttered, forcing a laugh that didn’t sound convincing.

Then came the voice.

It wasn’t loud—it was like someone speaking from another room, muffled and distant, yet somehow inside his head.

“Let me out…”

Ethan’s candle wavered as his hand trembled. “Hello?” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure why.

The scratching stopped. Silence pressed in like a weight. Then a slow, deliberate exhale came from behind the door—wet, heavy, and far too large to belong to a rat.

Ethan’s instincts screamed at him to run. He snatched the quilts and backed toward the stairs, his eyes never leaving the door.

By the time he reached his bed that night, he had convinced himself it was his imagination. But in the deepest part of his mind, where fear hides like a shadow, he knew what he’d heard was real.