Three friends climb into the attic of an old house and find a closed door that should not have been there. When something moves behind it, their evening stops being a dare.
Philip and Maja sat beside me on the mouldy staircase that climbed to the attic of my great-grandfather’s house. The rest of the place was empty, but the silence in the old rooms did not feel empty. It felt crowded, as if the walls were holding their breath.
"I’m telling you, I heard something up there," Philip whispered. He kept rubbing the torch against his trousers, as if that would steady his hands. "Footsteps. Or someone shifting around."
Maja lifted her eyebrows and glanced at me. She had been talking about the attic all week, pushing us to come up and see what was really there. Until now, none of us had wanted to be the first to open the door.
I told myself it was ridiculous. Old boards. Dust. Maybe pigeons nesting under the roof, or a bat flapping around in the dark. Nothing more.
But when Maja reached for the handle, the metal was cold enough to make me flinch. The door groaned open with a long, ragged creak that seemed to run all the way through the house. For a second, the three of us just stared into the blackness beyond it.
No light. No movement. Only a silence so complete it made my ears ring.
"So," Maja said at last, trying to sound calm and failing, "what do you think is in there?"
"Dust," Philip muttered. "Old boxes. Maybe Aunt Genowefa’s ghost, if we’re lucky."
He meant it as a joke, but his voice came out thin.
Then, from somewhere inside the attic, came a low, heavy sound. Not a voice exactly. More like a breath dragged through sleep.
Maja took one step back.
Philip grabbed my sleeve so hard it hurt.
The three of us froze.
The door moved.
Not because of the wind. Not this time. It shuddered as if something on the other side had pressed a hand flat against it and was pushing back.
Then a shadow slid over the brass knob.
A hand.
But none of us had touched the door.