We moved into our new house. The house had cathedral ceilings, and the only attic space was in the adjoining wall from my son’s room, above the kitchen. It was about twelve feet long, with its highest point about five feet, tapering down from the angle of the roof.
The first odd thing I noticed was that it had been nailed shut—not just with a few nails, but about twelve long, ominous ones. The former occupant was either attempting to stop someone from getting in… or out.
The house is in a very nice neighborhood. However, on the third night, we first heard something out of sorts: a scratching noise above the kitchen. I told my family we must have a trapped animal, perhaps a rat. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, my imagination kept considering a far more sinister prospect. I knew I had to investigate.
That Saturday, my wife went shopping, leaving my son Jonathan and me to tackle a list of chores. At the top was investigating the attic. It was the last task I completed that day. Finally, I could no longer procrastinate. I retrieved my toolbox from the garage, and with Jonathan eagerly at my heel and our dog Tasha by my side, we slowly marched upstairs.
We went into Jonathan's room to the corner where a wood panel was nailed into place. The roof angle continued there, so the space outside the panel was only about five feet high. I sighed, set my toolbox down, and banged my head in the process, which entertained my son but irritated me further.
I pulled out my hammer and, with much effort, eventually pulled out the first nail. It was six inches long. Strangely, after that first nail came out, Tasha started whining and licking my hand. She became such a distraction that I had to ask Jonathan to take her downstairs.
It must have taken three-quarters of an hour to get the first eleven nails out. It was a warm afternoon, and sweat dripped down my forehead, burning my eyes. As I was drying my eyes, I thought I heard something from inside the space—a slight rustling noise. This could only mean one thing: something was moving in there, just a few feet from where I sat. The look on my son’s face transformed from boredom to slight fear. Perhaps he sensed my unease, or maybe he also felt that things were not quite right. I considered simply nailing the board back… but part of me couldn't. I simply had to know.
So I took a deep breath and worked on the last nail. As it slipped from its place—obviously situated there for years—the board came free. The first thing we became aware of was the smell… it reminded me of rotting meat. As there were no lights, I sent Jonathan to retrieve the most powerful flashlight from the garage. He raced down with the exuberance of a ten-year-old and was back moments later.
Jonathan looked at me. I looked at Jonathan.
"Well," he said, "are you going in or not?"
Now, surely I could not disappoint the only person who considered me afraid of nothing? I edged into the space and fired up the flashlight… I was completely taken aback by the sight and quickly exited. I had noticed three things: a baby’s rattle, an old-fashioned teddy bear, and what looked to be a baby…
As I re-entered the attic with a more rational mind, I discovered what had appeared to be a baby was, in fact, a doll. I sent Jonathan to get my camera, and we took a photograph. I chuckled to myself at how my mind had twisted the situation. We left the panel unnailed, just resting against the gaping hole, and continued with our day.
We did not think much more of it until that evening while watching television; we once more heard the noise. But this time it was significantly louder.
The next morning, I once again stuck my head into the attic, and this time I almost screamed… not from what I saw, but from what I did not see. The doll had vanished.
I quickly nailed up the panel again. And to this day, I have never again ventured inside our attic. And yes, on occasion, we still do hear strange noises coming from that space.
Was it really just my imagination?
I am not so very sure… I suspect that my attic might hold a sordid past.