When I was about 7 years old, I was stay at my Grandfather's house. It was just me and him there and I slept upstairs on the top of a bunk-bed my sister and I shared when we'd stay over there. A loud crash of thunder aroused me from my dreams and as I stirred, the faintest thumping sound danced around my ears.
Upon further inspection of the sound, I realized it was coming from above me, in the attic. This puzzled me as the attic had no flooring and nobody could actually go be up there.
The thumping continued, softly, playing against the rain pattering down against the windows near my bed. My eyes long adjusting to the darkness and I laid down once more in attempts to drift back to sleep. Suddenly, as I my eyes had wandered towards the attic door as the often did, I noticed that the thumping ceased.
Just as I was about to close my eyes, something felt... off...
I focused my sight on the attic door and watched as the dust gathered there was disturbed by a hand-print that formed, right before my eyes, accompanied by a very loud bang.
I raced down the ladder of the bunk-bed and towards the stairs, making my way down them and through the dinning room. It was raining, so I knew my Grandfather would be awake, sitting on the porch and watch the storm. I threw the door open and ran to him, jumbling my words and panicking. Somehow, he managed to understand my frantic cries and calmed me down some. He stood up, held my hand, and then walked with me back into the house.
He led me up the stairs and as we arrived on the landing, a streak of lightning flashed through the window, lighting up the dark room. The light lasted hardly a few seconds, but what my Grandfather and I saw still haunts me to this day.
We heard a creaking sound and looked towards the attic door... a pair of deathly empty eyes starred back at us as we looked on in horror. It was only the smallest of openings, but we could clearly see those eyes, and they definitely saw us.
Slowly, my Grandfather leaned down, picked me up and held me close. I started sobbing into his shoulder and he comforted me with a soft hand rubbing my back. Not taking his eyes off those in our attic, he walked sideways down the stairs, turning and retreating to his room as soon as we hit the ground floor.
We spent the night in his room, door locked, and a few lights on.
What puzzles me still and racks my brain is the constant questions of "What was in the attic?" "How did it get in there?" "Why was it there?" but... most of all... How did it open the attic door, which had been sealed shut with cement, nails, and plaster...
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