The Echo In The Attic

e through which the chilling past of the Briarwood seeped into her present. Sleep was a forgotten luxury, replaced by restless nights spent poring over her sketches of the house, marking every creak, every unusual vibration, every subtle inconsistency she h

ain, feeling the minute unevenness beneath the layers of old paint. Her architect's eye saw beyond the superficial finish; she saw the possibility of a concealed void, a hastily co

sense of grim determination. The house was quiet, expectant, as if holding its breath. She pressed her ear to the patched wall, and faintly, undeniably, she h

r of plasterboard, hastily applied and poorly finished. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden, profound silence of the house. With th

sual sight. She shone her phone's flashlight into the void. The beam cut through the gloo

eath h

locket, clasped shut. Her fingers trembled as she reached in, carefully extracting the locket. It was cold to the touch, and when she managed to pry it open, a miniature, sepia-toned photograph stared back

nd journal. Its cover was water-stained, its pages warped, but the script within, though faded, was legible.

almost oppressive. The echoes were no longer faint; they were a cacophony, swirling around her, each whisper, each cry, each sh

ower. The handwriting was neat, elegant, yet growing increa

ange. His temper, initially sporadic, became volatile, unpredictable. Arguments escalated, often centered around his

ainted a harr

favorite doll today, just because she cried when I r

se she touched his papers. My sweet Lola, crying f

ng. He says he hears things. I hear him. It scares m

. I hear Lola up there with him now, sometimes. Her cries... muffled. I can't reach her. Oh, God

out, like a demon. He saw her, just reaching for it. 'Don't touch that!' I screamed. He snatched her up, covered her mouth. He said, 'She will never leave this house. No one leaves this house.

o more entries. Just a faint,

Femi, a hulking, enraged figure, snatched the little girl reaching for her ball. The child's shriek, then muffled as a hand clamped over her mouth. The frantic scuffle, the heav

s she heard were the desperate final moments of their lives, replaying in the place where they had met their end. The red ball. The locket. The journ

e rational architect, was now an unwilling witness to a decades-old murder. The "peculiar history" wasn't a quaint local legend;