Twisted Tales Tuesday: Whispers In The Attic
A short tale by Rachael Nightshade
The old Victorian creaked and groaned, its bones settling in the twilight. Sarah paused her unpacking, cocking her head to listen. There it was again - a faint whisper from the attic.
"Hello?" she called, her voice echoing in the empty house.
Silence answered, but as she turned back to her boxes, the whisper grew louder. Curiosity overrode caution, and Sarah found herself climbing the narrow stairs to the attic.
The door opened with a protest of rusted hinges. Moonlight filtered through a grimy window, illuminating dust motes that danced like lost souls. In the corner stood an ancient vanity, its mirror clouded with age.
The whispers intensified, seeming to emanate from the mirror itself. Sarah approached, heart pounding. As she gazed into the clouded glass, a face began to form - not her own, but that of an old woman, eyes milky white, skin like parchment.
"Finally," the face wheezed, a skeletal hand reaching out from the mirror. "A new reflection."
Sarah screamed as cold fingers grasped her wrist, pulling her towards the glass. She struggled, but the grip was impossibly strong. As her face touched the mirror's surface, she felt herself being drawn in, the old woman's triumphant cackle ringing in her ears.
The attic fell silent once more. In the mirror, a young woman's face looked out, eyes wide with terror, mouth open in a silent scream.
And somewhere in the house below, an old woman's laughter echoed through empty rooms.
Rachael's Note: Inspiration strikes in the strangest places. This tale came to me during our last recording session, as I caught my reflection in the studio's two-way mirror. Remember, darklings, not all echoes are sound, and not all reflections show what's truly there.*
