It had been two years since my wife passed away. Those years were long and filled with sorrow, but I knew I had to be strong for my daughter, Sophie, who was only five at the time. Life had been a series of challenges, but when I met Amelia, I felt like I’d found a partner who could help rebuild the family we’d lost.
Amelia was everything I thought we needed. She was kind, patient, and had a warmth that seemed to draw Sophie in. When we moved into her big, old house—an inheritance from her late parents—it felt like a fresh start. The house had character, with its creaky wooden floors and vintage charm. Amelia called it her sanctuary, and for a while, it felt like ours too.
But things began to change.
One evening, after a grueling week-long business trip, I came home to Sophie running into my arms. Her embrace felt tighter than usual, her little body trembling slightly.
“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “New Mom is different when you’re gone.”
A chill ran down my spine. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” I asked, crouching to meet her eye level.
“She locks herself in the attic,” Sophie said, her voice shaking. “I hear weird noises. It’s scary. She says I can’t go in. And… she’s mean.”
The words hit me like a brick. “Mean? How is she mean, sweetie?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“She makes me clean my room all alone,” Sophie said, her lip quivering. “And she won’t give me ice cream, even when I’m good.”
I tried to brush off her complaints about cleaning and ice cream as typical childhood grievances, but the mention of the attic stuck with me. Amelia had a habit of disappearing into the attic late at night. I’d noticed her heading upstairs with an old key, locking herself in, but I’d never thought much of it. I assumed it was her private space, somewhere she kept her sentimental belongings. But now, hearing Sophie’s fear, I felt uneasy.
That night, unable to sleep, I waited. Around midnight, I heard Amelia’s soft footsteps heading up the stairs. My heart raced as I followed quietly behind her, careful not to make a sound. She slipped into the attic and, to my surprise, didn’t lock the door. This was my chance.
Acting on impulse, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit by a single hanging bulb. It was cluttered with old furniture, dusty boxes, and strange items I couldn’t immediately recognize. But what caught my attention was Amelia. She was sitting at an old desk, her back to me, muttering to herself. On the desk lay a pile of old, yellowed papers and a book with a cracked leather cover. The air in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating.
“Amelia,” I said, my voice shaky.
She jumped, whipping around to face me. Her eyes were wide, almost wild. For a moment, she looked like a stranger.
“What are you doing up here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She hesitated, her gaze darting between me and the desk. “It’s nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just going through some old family belongings.”
I stepped closer, my eyes scanning the room. The book on the desk caught my attention. It was open to a page filled with strange symbols and handwritten notes. Something about it felt… wrong.
“What is this?” I asked, pointing to the book.
Amelia’s face darkened. “It’s private,” she snapped, slamming the book shut.
“Private? Sophie’s scared of you, Amelia. She says you’re mean to her when I’m not around. And now this? What’s going on?”
Her expression softened, but her eyes remained guarded. “Sophie’s just adjusting,” she said. “She’s a child. Children exaggerate.”
“Exaggerate? She told me you lock yourself in the attic and make strange noises. And now I find you here, muttering to yourself over… whatever this is,” I said, gesturing to the book.
Amelia sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Fine,” she said. “I didn’t want to burden you with this, but… this house has history. My parents… they were collectors of oddities. Some of the things they left behind are unsettling, I admit. But I promise, it’s nothing dangerous. Just… memories.”
Her explanation seemed plausible, but something about her tone felt rehearsed. My gut told me there was more to the story.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of Amelia in the attic haunted me. I decided to investigate further. The next day, while she was out, I went back to the attic.
The book was still there, hidden under a pile of papers. I opened it, my hands trembling. The pages were filled with strange rituals and symbols, things I couldn’t understand but felt ominous. Then I found a page with a name scribbled repeatedly: Sophie.
Panic set in. What was Amelia doing? Was she dangerous? And most importantly, was Sophie safe?
When Amelia returned home, I confronted her again, this time with the book in hand. Her reaction was immediate and defensive. She accused me of invading her privacy, of not trusting her. The argument escalated, but I didn’t back down.
The following days were tense. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong. Sophie’s words echoed in my mind: “She’s different when you’re gone.”
I began documenting everything, determined to uncover the truth. Whatever Amelia was hiding, I had to protect Sophie.
The attic held more than just memories—it held secrets. And I was determined to find out what they were.
