RU
It was a chilly autumn afternoon when I moved into the old Hawthorne House, pushing the wooden door with a reluctant creek that echoed through the empty hallway. The air was thick with dust; as I stepped inside, the smell of mould greeted me like an unwelcome guest. I had inherited the place from my grandmother, whom I barely knew. There was something about the house – some inexplicable weight that sat heavy on my chest, that made my heart race with uneasy thrill.
The first few nights were surprisingly peaceful, with only the occasional sound of the wind howling through the rooms, a soft whistle that filled the darkness. Late, one evening, as I settled into my grandmother’s old armchair, the floorboards began to groan beneath me. I brushed it off, attributing it to the house’s age, but as the clock struck midnight, I heard it; a soft thud coming from the attic above.
Curious, I grabbed a torch and made my way up the narrow staircase, the air growing colder with each step. The attic door stood, half-open, a thin sliver of darkness pulsed with mystery beyond. As I pushed it open, the door let out a reluctant squeak and anxiety flooded my veins.
The attic was cluttered with remnants of the past – boxes piled high, furniture draped in sheets and a strange smell filled the air. I shone my torch, illuminating dust particles that danced like tiny spirits. The thudding noise had stopped and all that remained was an unsettling silence.
‘Just the wind,’ I said, to reassure myself, but deep down, doubt creeped in. Then I saw it: a small, bruised chest sitting in the corner, partially hidden beneath a torn blanket. My heart raced, a mix of alarm and curiosity. I approached, the floor creaking under my weight.
With trembling fingers, I tugged at the blanket, revealing the chest’s age surface, the hinges covered in rust. It felt wrong, like awakening something that had long been at rest. As I lifted the lid, a low whisper filled the air, as if the house itself sighed in response. Inside the chest lay a collection of old letters, yellowed with time, alongside a porcelain doll with a cracked face staring up at me, its eyes glinting in the beam of the torch.
I picked up the first letter, carefully unfolding it. The elegant handwriting spoke of love, loss and desperation; written by my grandmother to someone named Elias. As I read the letter, an icy shiver ran down my spine, revealing a tale of betrayal and sorrow that echoed through the years.
Each new letter revealed an untold secret, a chapter of my grandmother’s life that was far from the serene old woman I had imagined. The last letter, however, was different. This was frantic, the ink smudged, having been scrawled in haste.
“He’s coming for me. I can hear his whispers in the dark. Please help me before it’s too late…”
A loud bang, a door slamming shut, jolted me from my thoughts. My heart thundered as I turned to see the attic door closed, trapping me inside. I rushed to it, my hands trembling as I pulled at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic rushed through me and I could feel the brutal weight of the shadows closing in, descending on me, suffocating like an old, ragged sheet.
‘Let me out! Please!’ I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the forbidding silence. The air grew heavier, and I could hear a low drumming, like footsteps approaching, echoing in the darkness. I turned to the chest, the letters scattered on the floor, the doll’s gaze unnaturally intense, as though it were watching my every move.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound was growing, I pressed my back against the door, fear thumping more violently than my heart. Just then, the lantern flickered, casting strange shadows that danced violently along the walls. I caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the corner of the attic, a bare silhouette, its features concealed by the darkness.
‘Elias?’ I whispered, the name slipping from my lips. The silhouette shifted and a chill crept down my spine. The whispering returned, not a gentle breeze, but a choir of voices, layered and overlapping, filling my mind with confusion and dread. I couldn’t differentiate words, only a low hum that resonated deeply within me.
Suddenly, the attic door flew open with a force that sent me tumbling back. I pulled myself to my feet, sending relics crashing and sprawling and ran towards the stairs, the whispers rising to a wild pitch behind me. They were calling my name.
‘Run!’ I screamed at myself, as I raced down the stairs, my footsteps pounding against the wood, the thud-thud-thud relentless and chasing me. I burst into the living room, gasping for breath, but the atmosphere felt different now, as if the house were alive, watching, breathing, waiting.
In that moment I realised that I hadn’t just uncovered my grandmother’s secrets; I had awakened something that should have been left undisturbed. The whispers turned into growls, and shadows twisted around the walls. I could feel the presence behind me, a cold breath brushing against my neck, urging me to look back.
But I couldn’t, I ran towards the front door, desperate to escape this nightmare. The wind outside rushed in like a flood, yanking me like the squall into its embrace. I stumbled down the steps, heart pounding wildly, but before I could move it to my car, I felt a sharp tug at my arm. I turned and found the porcelain doll lay on the ground, its cracked face glaring up at me.
“Please don’t leave me”, it seemed to whisper, though its lips never moved. The tone was familiar – like my grandmother’s voice from the letters. Confusion flooded me, mixing with fear and pity.
‘I can help you… I can help you…’
The shadows were intoxicating, drawing me in, pull me back towards the house. They were seductive, absorbing me, wanting me to fall back into their depths. Just then, a thunderous crash echoed across the sky, lightning illuminating the house, letting me see it for what it was, a living force.
In that moment, clarity struck. I had to leave. I had to escape whatever twisted legacy and fate had befallen my grandmother. I tore my gaze away from the doll and ran, never looking back. I jumped into my car, holding my breath, not daring to check in the mirror until Hawthorne House was only a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky.
Even as I drove, the screams of the past raced to my ears, reminding me that some secrets are better left buried. Lightning cracked across the sky once more and I swear that somehow I could see the doll, standing upon the top step, watching, waiting, whispering, a dark promise that lingered in the air.
by Alba Zorzano
