Shadows in the Attic
It is said that every light casts a promise, and that promise is shadow.
Beware, then, the shapes that answer when no flame is near.
For not all darkness is absence — some are remnants, patient and deliberate.
The old masters spoke of these echoes as children of intent, born from spells that could not die.
When the boundary between candle and void weakens — as it does upon the eve of the dead — they may stir, seeking the warmth that first betrayed them.
Should one find the mark — the shape that points not outward but inward — do not step within its lines, nor cast light upon it.
For what the shadow hungers for most is not the sun… but the soul that dares to see it.
The house on Crowley Lane had bad light. Not that it was dark, exactly — sunlight did slip through its crooked windows — but it always seemed tired by the time it arrived, pale and worn thin, as though it had traveled too far.
Ellis noticed it first on the day they moved in: dust motes spun lazily through a dull shaft of gold that didn’t quite reach the far corners. Even at noon, the shadows lingered stubbornly in the eaves, clutching the beams like cobwebs.
The parents were busy downstairs arguing over paint swatches and plumbing. So Ellis wandered, guided more by curiosity than courage, and soon found the narrow pull-cord that led to the attic. It came down like a noose from the ceiling.
Up he went, step by creaking step, into a low room that smelled of moths and old wax. The air was still — not empty still Ellis felt, but more expectant? As if something had paused mid-breath. Goosebumps rose on his forearms as he studied the dark space. Dust lay thick across the floor, except in one place.
There, beneath the slanted window, was a shape carved into the wood. Sharp lines, blackened at the edges, intersecting with deliberate precision. Ellis brushed the surface. The tips were charred, almost oily, as though something had burned inward.
He called down to his mother about it. She shouted back that it was “probably from candles or some old insulation thing.” But Ellis wasn’t so sure.
That night, when the wind sighed through the gutters and the walls muttered with their settling groans, Ellis dreamed of a man wearing a wide, pointed hat and black billowing robes. The face was lost to shadow, but a faint glow pulsed where his eyes should have been — like coals smoldering at the bottom of a well. He whispered, “Light is only shadow in disguise.”
Ellis woke with a start before dawn, heart hammering, the words still clinging like cobwebs in the shadows.
By morning, the dream felt foolish. But curiosity, as it tends to, crept back in. Ellis returned to the attic with a flashlight. Dust swirled like pale smoke as the beam cut through the dark. He knelt beside the carving, shining the light over it — and froze.
His shadow stretched behind them on the far wall. But beside it, slightly smaller, was another.
The second shadow didn’t move when Ellis did. It only stood there, perfectly still, its head tapering into a sharp triangular peak.
Ellis blinked. The light flickered. Both shadows vanished.
He ran downstairs and told his father, who laughed — “You’ve been reading too many ghost stories.” He replaced the attic bulb that afternoon, and for a while, the incident faded into that strange fog where dreams and memory mix.
Until the next Sunday night.
The new bulb flickered in the dark hours before dawn. Footsteps creaked overhead. Ellis listened, holding his breath, and then — soft as a sigh — a sound like chalk on wood. Something was being drawn.
The next morning, when he dared climb up again, the carving was freshly cut, the lines sharper, as though they’d been redrawn but from below - from within.
Ellis brought his phone to record. The footage showed only static. But in the hiss of the noise, beneath the hum, came a faint whisper:
“I can feel you.”
Ellis told no one after that. He couldn’t have explained it anyway — the way the air in the attic felt heavy now, or how every shadow in the house seemed to lean a little too far in his direction. Even his own reflection in the window felt delayed, half a heartbeat behind.
On All Hallow’s Eve, the storm came. Wind howled through the chimney, and lightning cracked the horizon in white veins. The power cut out with a sigh.
In the trembling candlelight, the house felt awake. Alive.
Ellis climbed the stairs one last time. He carried the flashlight like a talisman. The attic hatch yawned open above — a mouth in the ceiling, into darkness.
When the beam found the shape, it wasn’t still anymore. The lines were glowing faintly purple, pulsing like the ember of a dying star, the lines taking on a life of their own; ghostly outlines danced above the trembling floorboards, the ghostly outlines of an old tome surrounding the spinning symbol.
And then the shadow rose.
It poured upward from the carving, limbs unfurling from black mist, its head brushing the rafters. The abyss where its face should have been opened wider and wider, until the light from the flashlight bent and vanished into it — as though the dark were inhaling.
Ellis didn’t scream. There was only the sound of the flashlight clattering to the floor, flickering weakly in its last moments.
When the storm passed, the attic was empty.
By morning, the parents told themselves Ellis must have run away. They said it quietly, almost rehearsed — the kind of story one tells not to explain, but to endure. His shoes were still by the door. His jacket still hung on the chair. But the house had gone strangely still, as though listening.
Police came, asked questions, took photographs. One of them shone a light across the dark attic and frowned.
For a second, as the beam swept across the scarred floor boards, it seemed the everything cast two shadows.
One tall.
One smaller.
Blinking, the duality was as quickly gone as it had appeared. As the officer turned away, the smaller shadow lingered a moment too long before fading — as though it hadn’t quite decided to let go.
Featured in
Shadows in the Attic
SPZ
Shadows in the Attic
It is said that every light casts a promise, and that promise is shadow.
Beware, then, the shapes that answer when no flame is near.
For not all darkness is absence — some are remnants, patient and deliberate.
The old masters spoke of these echoes as children of intent, born from spells that could not die.
When the boundary between candle and void weakens — as it does upon the eve of the dead — they may stir, seeking the warmth that first betrayed them.
Should one find the mark — the shape that points not outward but inward — do not step within its lines, nor cast light upon it.
For what the shadow hungers for most is not the sun… but the soul that dares to see it.
The house on Crowley Lane had bad light. Not that it was dark, exactly — sunlight did slip through its crooked windows — but it always seemed tired by the time it arrived, pale and worn thin, as though it had traveled too far.
Ellis noticed it first on the day they moved in: dust motes spun lazily through a dull shaft of gold that didn’t quite reach the far corners. Even at noon, the shadows lingered stubbornly in the eaves, clutching the beams like cobwebs.
The parents were busy downstairs arguing over paint swatches and plumbing. So Ellis wandered, guided more by curiosity than courage, and soon found the narrow pull-cord that led to the attic. It came down like a noose from the ceiling.
Up he went, step by creaking step, into a low room that smelled of moths and old wax. The air was still — not empty still Ellis felt, but more expectant? As if something had paused mid-breath. Goosebumps rose on his forearms as he studied the dark space. Dust lay thick across the floor, except in one place.
There, beneath the slanted window, was a shape carved into the wood. Sharp lines, blackened at the edges, intersecting with deliberate precision. Ellis brushed the surface. The tips were charred, almost oily, as though something had burned inward.
He called down to his mother about it. She shouted back that it was “probably from candles or some old insulation thing.” But Ellis wasn’t so sure.
That night, when the wind sighed through the gutters and the walls muttered with their settling groans, Ellis dreamed of a man wearing a wide, pointed hat and black billowing robes. The face was lost to shadow, but a faint glow pulsed where his eyes should have been — like coals smoldering at the bottom of a well. He whispered, “Light is only shadow in disguise.”
Ellis woke with a start before dawn, heart hammering, the words still clinging like cobwebs in the shadows.
By morning, the dream felt foolish. But curiosity, as it tends to, crept back in. Ellis returned to the attic with a flashlight. Dust swirled like pale smoke as the beam cut through the dark. He knelt beside the carving, shining the light over it — and froze.
His shadow stretched behind them on the far wall. But beside it, slightly smaller, was another.
The second shadow didn’t move when Ellis did. It only stood there, perfectly still, its head tapering into a sharp triangular peak.
Ellis blinked. The light flickered. Both shadows vanished.
He ran downstairs and told his father, who laughed — “You’ve been reading too many ghost stories.” He replaced the attic bulb that afternoon, and for a while, the incident faded into that strange fog where dreams and memory mix.
Until the next Sunday night.
The new bulb flickered in the dark hours before dawn. Footsteps creaked overhead. Ellis listened, holding his breath, and then — soft as a sigh — a sound like chalk on wood. Something was being drawn.
The next morning, when he dared climb up again, the carving was freshly cut, the lines sharper, as though they’d been redrawn but from below - from within.
Ellis brought his phone to record. The footage showed only static. But in the hiss of the noise, beneath the hum, came a faint whisper:
“I can feel you.”
Ellis told no one after that. He couldn’t have explained it anyway — the way the air in the attic felt heavy now, or how every shadow in the house seemed to lean a little too far in his direction. Even his own reflection in the window felt delayed, half a heartbeat behind.
On All Hallow’s Eve, the storm came. Wind howled through the chimney, and lightning cracked the horizon in white veins. The power cut out with a sigh.
In the trembling candlelight, the house felt awake. Alive.
Ellis climbed the stairs one last time. He carried the flashlight like a talisman. The attic hatch yawned open above — a mouth in the ceiling, into darkness.
When the beam found the shape, it wasn’t still anymore. The lines were glowing faintly purple, pulsing like the ember of a dying star, the lines taking on a life of their own; ghostly outlines danced above the trembling floorboards, the ghostly outlines of an old tome surrounding the spinning symbol.
And then the shadow rose.
It poured upward from the carving, limbs unfurling from black mist, its head brushing the rafters. The abyss where its face should have been opened wider and wider, until the light from the flashlight bent and vanished into it — as though the dark were inhaling.
Ellis didn’t scream. There was only the sound of the flashlight clattering to the floor, flickering weakly in its last moments.
When the storm passed, the attic was empty.
By morning, the parents told themselves Ellis must have run away. They said it quietly, almost rehearsed — the kind of story one tells not to explain, but to endure. His shoes were still by the door. His jacket still hung on the chair. But the house had gone strangely still, as though listening.
Police came, asked questions, took photographs. One of them shone a light across the dark attic and frowned.
For a second, as the beam swept across the scarred floor boards, it seemed the everything cast two shadows.
One tall.
One smaller.
Blinking, the duality was as quickly gone as it had appeared. As the officer turned away, the smaller shadow lingered a moment too long before fading — as though it hadn’t quite decided to let go.
