The Watcher in the Attic

 There’s an old house at the edge of town, tucked away behind a row of withered oaks, its windows darkened with age and neglect. It’s a place most people avoid, for there’s a story that goes with it. A story whispered by the townsfolk for years, one that has become as much a part of the house as its crumbling foundation. They say the house isn’t just abandoned—it’s haunted.

When Marcus Cole, a young journalist looking to make a name for himself, arrived in town, he scoffed at the rumors. He was here for a story, after all. Not some fanciful tale of restless spirits and shadowy figures. His assignment was simple: write about the local history, the people, and the places that had shaped the town’s character. But there was one name he kept hearing wherever he went—the name of the house at the edge of town.

The house had been empty for years. The last family to live there, the Millers, had vanished without a trace. They’d been a quiet family, the kind that kept to themselves, and no one had ever understood what had happened to them. All that was known was that they’d moved into the house one summer and, by the fall, they were gone.

Rumors swirled about them—about strange noises coming from the attic, lights flickering in the windows long after dark, and the occasional sighting of a figure in the upper story, peering out into the night. The townspeople said it was the house itself that drove them away. That something had lived there long before the Millers, something that was still waiting, watching.

The more Marcus heard about the house, the more intrigued he became. He had always prided himself on being a rational man, someone who didn’t believe in ghosts or curses. But this was a good story. A perfect story. So, one evening, with the sky darkening and a chill creeping in from the horizon, Marcus made his way to the house.

The walk was long and lonely, the only sound the crunch of dry leaves underfoot. When he finally arrived at the front gate, his breath caught in his throat. The house stood silent and imposing against the backdrop of the evening sky, its broken windows like vacant eyes, its rotting porch sagging under the weight of time. It was the kind of house that seemed to draw in the night, its dark silhouette swallowing the last light of day.

Marcus hesitated. The air felt thick here, the stillness unsettling. But he had come this far, and he wasn’t going to back down now. With a steadying breath, he pushed open the creaking gate and stepped onto the overgrown path leading to the front door.

Inside, the house was even worse than he had imagined. The air smelled stale, damp, and musty, as though it hadn’t been disturbed in years. Dust motes danced in the dim light that filtered through the broken windows, and the floorboards groaned under Marcus’s weight, as if protesting his presence.

He had expected the house to be decaying, but there was something else in the air, something heavier, darker. An oppressive silence filled every room, as if the house were holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone.

Marcus moved cautiously through the ground floor, noting the remnants of the Millers’ life—faded photographs on the walls, cracked furniture covered in dust, the faintest trace of a life that had once been lived here. There was an old fireplace in the parlor, the hearth long cold, and in the corner of the room, an old grandfather clock that had stopped ticking long ago. Yet despite the decay, there was a strange sense of order to everything, as if the house were frozen in time, unwilling to let go of the past.

As he ascended the stairs to the second floor, Marcus felt a prickle at the back of his neck, a sensation he couldn’t shake. The air here felt colder, and the silence was more suffocating, as if the house itself was watching him, waiting.

At the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway, and at the end of it, a door to the attic. The stairs leading up were steep, and the door itself was ajar, as if inviting him in. The faintest light from a single bulb flickered above, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward him.

He stepped forward, his footsteps slow and deliberate. The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the stairs groaned under his weight. The attic was cramped, filled with old trunks, boxes, and forgotten relics. The space felt tight, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in around him.

And then he saw it.

At the far end of the attic, sitting in the corner, was a rocking chair. It was an old, worn thing, with peeling paint and sagging cushions. And in the chair—sitting perfectly still, as if frozen in time—was a figure.

Marcus’s breath caught in his throat. It was a woman. Her hair was long and tangled, her skin pale and drawn. She wore an old, faded dress, one that looked as though it had been stitched together by hand. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled into tight fists.

Her face was turned toward him, her eyes wide open, unblinking. But her gaze was not empty. It was… watching him.

A chill ran down Marcus’s spine. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The silence in the attic was deafening, broken only by the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest.

And then, the chair moved.

Slowly, creaking with an unnatural slowness, the chair rocked forward. The woman’s head tilted slightly, her gaze never leaving his. Her mouth opened, but no sound came from it. It was as if the very air had been sucked out of the room.

Marcus stumbled backward, his legs weak. The attic seemed to close in on him, the shadows growing longer, darker. The woman’s eyes followed him, unblinking, as if beckoning him closer.

Without thinking, Marcus turned and bolted down the stairs, not caring how loud his footsteps were or how fast his heart beat. He crashed through the hallway, the door to the attic slamming shut behind him, and ran out of the house.

When he reached the front gate, he dared to look back, his breath ragged and his mind racing. But the house was still. Silent. The rocking chair had stopped.

Yet he knew, deep down, that the woman was still there. In the attic. Watching.

The next morning, Marcus left town without a word. He never wrote the article about the house. No one ever heard from him again.

And the house at the edge of town remained as it always had—dark, abandoned, and waiting for the next person who might come to visit.