grandma's attic

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

what could be so bad about exploring the attic?

Submitted: September 27, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 27, 2017



Grandma had asked me to bring down the dolls stored up in the attic.

The attic door opened creakily as if that was the most movement it’d gotten in years. The rust that had formed on the hinge was barely visible in the dim light, as were the patches of mold that had grown amongst the ceiling beams in the humid, musty conditions.

I reached around in the dark for the chain to pull and trigger the lights. As my hand found its’ target and pulled down, the attic lit up and every dusty shelf, box and corner was visible.

A thunderous boom came from outside and just as quickly as the light had come on, it had suddenly gone out. I heard rain continue to pound heavily on the roof, and cursed the bad weather. Pulling myself up onto the floor and getting up onto my feet – while crouching ever so slightly to not hit my head on the ceiling, I stumbled around to the nearest shelf and felt around for something I could use as a source of light for the time being.

My hand hit something. Another boom was heard – this time from the crashing of an object onto the floor. Being my clumsy self, I wasn’t surprised by this. I reached down and felt around the wooden floor in the dark. At first my fingertips collected nothing but dust, but then they touched something cold and metal. Something I could wrap them around. Figuring out it was a flashlight, I switched it on and lifted it up into my field of vision. I could see around the attic now – the dusty, creepy, least visited place in Grandma’s old farmhouse. It looked like no one had set foot in it in decades.

I started about my mission. Grandma had these old wooden dolls that she had collected – I didn’t know what they looked like, but I figured they wouldn’t be hard to spot. She’d talked all about her doll collection, and I had listened with open ears. Some passed down from generation to generation, others collected in various parts of the world throughout her past travels. I was intrigued, in a way. Although, I began to think, as I thought I felt something subtly brush my shoulder – probably just a spiderweb – the thunderous storm outside and the dark, mysterious attic lent a small sense of dread.

I began to get anxious. What if my next step led to the old wooden floor panel cracking under the pressure, and taking me with it? No. Stop it, I told myself. You’re being irrational. There’s nothing different about this attic as there’d be if it were a beautifully bright summer day and the power was on.

I stopped abruptly in my thoughts and in my footsteps as I scanned the shelf I had suddenly found myself standing in front of. Too many wooden dolls to count sat on each shelf, messily crammed against each other, some lying down, while some lied on the floor in front and by the sides. But as I got a closer look, I noticed something ominous that each doll had in common…

Somewhere on the side of each doll read a letter. The letters looked like they had been smeared on by someone with horrible handwriting, in a dark reddish-brown, dried yet slightly sticky substance still. I shuddered to think of what it may be.

It didn’t take much effort to read the message that was supposedly intended to be sent. Most of the dolls had already been arranged in such a way to make sentences legible. All that was left for me to do was to take the dolls from the floor, and fill in the remaining gaps in the words. I stepped back and took in what I was reading.

“She is not yours. 1989 was when she passed. She is an imposter. She is waiting downstairs…”

I tried to keep my terrified thoughts from taking over my rational thoughts. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the words, but I figured it was some kind of sick joke. Shaking my head, I began to block out all fear from my mind and pile the dolls into empty boxes to bring downstairs. Once my task had been completed, I stuck the flashlight between my chin and my stack of boxes and made my way back to the attic door. Putting the boxes down, I opened the door to let the second floor light in so I could turn off the flashlight and put it down.

Lifting the boxes back into my arms, I carefully stepped down onto the first step of grandma’s steep fold-out stepladder. Making my way down slowly, I noticed that the storm seemed to be subsiding. I hadn’t heard any thunder in a while, and the pattering of the rain against the windows wasn’t as loud. “Grandma?” I yelled out, remembering the message and feeling the concern creep back into my head again. There was no response.

I got to the flight of stairs separating the second floor from the first floor, where I last saw grandma sitting in the living room in her prized antique armchair. My feet made it a few steps down, and then I heard a clap of thunder that was louder and more sudden than any I had heard in a very long time – my right foot stopped dead in the air due to the shock – then continued, missing the next step down, and I tumbled down with it, dropping the boxes and hitting my tailbone and the back of my head forcefully on the hardwood staircase. I heard a shattering inside the boxes as they landed…grandma is going to be heartbroken, I thought. Dazed and in a great deal of pain, I felt the back of my head with my hand and felt warm blood. I tried to prop myself back up, but as I did, a sharp wave of pain shot through my thigh and I realized just how hurt I actually was.

I shouted for grandma again, and this time she came.

She stepped out of the kitchen and into the foyer looking at first confused, until she saw me lying helpless at the bottom of the stairs. A malicious grin spread across her face. I watched in horror as she lifted her arm, and a gleaming meat cleaver came into view.

“I’ve been waiting...”

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