No one believed the screams came from the attic, and I couldn’t escape it. Our house was one of those quaint, century-old homes full of history and character—or, as some would say, charm. It’s the kind of home that creaks and groans like an old ship, with steep stairs that seem to lead right into the clouds and an attic that feels like it’s trying to keep secrets hidden from even its own inhabitants.
I moved in with my aunt after my parents’ divorce. They told me it was for the best, that I’d have more stability while they figured things out. But to me, it felt like being displaced, torn away from the only life I knew. Aunt Clara meant well, her kindness woven into every meal she prepared and every knitted cardigan she insisted I wear. But there was an undercurrent of isolation in that house, a waxy sheen over her smiles that never quite reached her eyes.
From day one, the attic called to me, or maybe it cursed at me. I’m still not sure. My room was directly beneath it, and each night as I lay in bed, I’d hear noises—unsettling thumps, the rustle of forgotten things, and sometimes, screams. At first, I tried to convince myself it was just the wind, or stray cats, or perhaps even a vivid imagination born from stress and sadness. I told myself these things as I pulled the covers up over my head, as if layers of fabric could protect me from whatever haunted that space.
I confided in Aunt Clara once, hoping she might have a reasonable explanation or at least offer some comfort. But she just laughed softly, patting my hand which rested, clammy and tense, atop the kitchen table. “Old houses make all kinds of noises,” she said, her voice threading through the space between us like a thin veil. “There’s nothing to worry about, dear.”
But worry I did. Each night the noises grew louder, more persistent. The screams pierced the quiet of the night, etching themselves into the crawlspaces of my mind. I started having dreams—no, nightmares—where I was trapped in that attic, bathed in darkness as the walls closed in on me, the air heavy with the weight of countless secrets.
On weekends, when Aunt Clara went out to tend to her garden or run errands, I would stand at the foot of the attic stairs, my feet rooted to the spot, heart pounding as if it were trying to break free from the cage it was imprisoned in. I told myself I’d climb those stairs, face whatever it was that haunted them. But I never did. Instead, I’d find myself pacing the halls, washing dishes that were already clean, or re-reading books whose endings I’d already memorized, just to avoid the pull of the attic steps.
Then, one stormy evening, it happened. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the power went out, plunging the house into a darkness deeper than any I’d known. I sat in the living room, the candle I’d found casting flickering shadows across the wallpaper florals that had seen better decades. That’s when I heard it—the scream, distinct and anguised, as if it were right beside me.
I went cold, every nerve in my body on high alert. I stood, the candle threatening to extinguish in my shaky grip, and forced myself up those stairs. There was no convincing myself this time that it was just the wind.
The attic door was slightly ajar, the sliver of black an invitation I had neither expected nor desired. I pushed it open with trembling hands, the door creaking as if in protest, and stepped inside.
The scream came again, but softer, almost as if… It was my own voice, echoing back at me from the cavernous space. I’d been here before, in those nightmares that felt so real, and now they were real. The attic was empty, save for a few forgotten boxes and cobweb-draped beams. But it was heavy with something intangible, a sorrow or perhaps an anguish so profound it hung in the air like thick smoke.
That’s when I saw it. On the far wall was a small mirror, its frame dusty but the glass pristine. I moved closer, drawn to it like a moth to flame. My reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed. And then, as if from nowhere, I felt it—my heart cracking open to let in a torrent of emotions I’d been suppressing: the grief of leaving my home, the feeling of being unloved, unwanted, perhaps even forgotten by my own parents.
I understood then. The screams were from me, or perhaps some version of me I’d tried to bury, the pain I had ignored locked away in my mind where it festered and gave sound to the voiceless sorrow. The attic was not haunted by spirits but by memories I had failed to come to terms with, manifesting in the only way they knew how.
When Aunt Clara returned, I didn’t speak of what I had discovered. Instead, I spoke about school, about gardens, about the weather—using trivial conversations as a bridge to the world outside my own haunted mind. But now, I was actively listening to those echoes, acknowledging them. The process was slow, gradual, but it started there.
The attic no longer terrifies me. Instead, it’s a reminder that running away from pain only makes it scream louder. Sometimes, you have to climb the stairs and face it head-on, and only then can the healing begin.
Reflecting now, I hold no resentment toward the attic or its memories. They taught me that understanding and confronting my fears is a part of growing, a strangely comforting revelation that I now carry as I move forward with life in all its uncertainty and complexity.
