The Ghost in the Attic

I hired a woman to clean the house while my whole family was out. An hour later, she called me and whispered, “Ma’am, is someone else in the house?”

I froze. “No, why do you ask?”

“There’s a woman on the second floor.”

I started shaking. “Get out of there right now.” I called the police and sped back home.

That day, I’d planned to clean the house myself when my childhood friend, Elena, called. She was passing through town for one day and wanted to get coffee. I couldn’t say no, but the house was a mess. I remembered Caroline, a kind girl who lived nearby and needed extra work. She accepted right away.

I gave her specific instructions: clean the library, scrub the second-floor stairs, and be careful with my husband Steven’s old shelves. I left her a key and drove to the coffee shop.

Elena and I were laughing, remembering old times, when my phone rang. It was Caroline. I smiled, thinking she was finished. But when I answered, I heard only heavy breathing, like she was holding back panic.

“Mrs. Emily,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Is someone else in the house?”

My heart stopped. “No,” I replied, trying to sound calm. “My husband is at the newspaper. What’s wrong, Caroline?”

A few seconds of silence, then her voice broke. “There’s a woman on the second floor. I was cleaning the stairs and I saw her. She was wearing a long, white dress. Her hair was a mess. She walked down the hall and disappeared into the last room.”

Her words were like an icy knife in my chest. I apologized to Elena, told Caroline to get out immediately, and called the police as I drove. My mind was a whirlwind. When I arrived, a police car was already there. Caroline was huddled on the step, her face pale with fear.

The officers came out. They had checked every corner. There was no one. No signs of forced entry.

Just then, Steven’s car pulled up. I quickly told him what happened, expecting him to be worried. But Steven just smiled slightly, a smile I had rarely seen. He went over to Caroline, patted her on the shoulder, and said in a soft, almost mocking voice, “You were probably just tired and mistook a reflection for a shadow. Our house is old; it plays tricks on your eyes.”

I knew Caroline wasn’t prone to fantasies, but Steven’s calmness made me doubt myself. I apologized to the police, a bitter shame rising in my chest.

Three months later, I retired. The quiet house became my world, but the change of pace brought sleepless nights. I started noticing strange sounds from the attic—faint at first, then clearer. A chair dragging. Light footsteps, pacing back and forth.

I told Steven. “It’s just rats, Emily,” he said distractedly, not looking up from his newspaper. “I’ll buy some traps.”

He placed the traps at the foot of the attic stairs, and strangely, the noises disappeared completely. But then other things started happening.

One afternoon, I bought a spicy sausage—my favorite. Steven had never liked spicy food. The next morning, a large, unevenly cut piece was missing.

“Did you take some of the sausage?” I asked him.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, still focused on his paper. “I felt like trying something spicy. It was good, actually.”

I stood there, frozen. Steven couldn’t stand spicy food. A few days later, the rest of the sausage had vanished completely.

Then, one Saturday, we returned late from a trip. I went into the upstairs bathroom and felt something cold and wet. The floor was soaked, as if someone had just taken a shower. Drops of water slid down the tub walls.

“Steven, come here!” I called, my voice trembling. “The bathroom is soaked!”

He came in and shrugged. “It must have been the afternoon rain that got in through the ceiling vent, love.”

“It hasn’t rained, Steven.”

“Then it must be a leak,” he said, a little annoyed. “You’re always worrying about nothing.” He never called a plumber.

A week later, I decided to clean Steven’s library. As I lifted a heavy pile of his papers, they spilled onto the floor. The jolt popped open a small wooden drawer that had been stuck for years. Inside, under a pile of yellowed drafts, was a small, dark brown leather notebook. It looked ancient. Curious, I opened it.

The pages were filled with elegant handwriting—clearly a woman’s. They were story outlines, character descriptions, plot ideas. The ideas felt hauntingly similar to the plots of Steven’s most famous novels.

My heart was pounding. It couldn’t be a coincidence. I knew Steven hated writing by hand. So, whose notebook was this? A secret collaborator? I put the notebook back, a cold dread settling inside me.

That night, around 2 a.m., a faint creak came from the hallway. I sat up straight. I got out of bed and saw it—the attic door was ajar. A cold, damp draft drifted down. I went back to the room and gently shook my husband. “Steven, wake up. The attic door is open.”

He got up, annoyed. But when we got to the hall, the door was shut, the latch firmly in place.

“Emily,” he said, his voice tired and grave. “You’re too tense lately. You’re not sleeping well. That’s why you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

In the following days, Steven developed a new habit. Around 10 p.m., he would go to his library to “concentrate.” One night, I woke up around 1 a.m. and his side of the bed was cold and empty. The library was dark. I called his name, but there was no answer.

As I passed the stairs, I heard a soft footstep. It was Steven, coming down from the second floor, barefoot, carrying an empty, clean porcelain plate. When he saw me, his eyes widened in shock. The plate slipped from his hands and shattered on the stone floor.

“What were you doing up there?” I asked, my voice trembling.

He avoided my gaze, picking up the pieces. “I… got stuck on the end of the book. I needed a quiet place, so I went up for a while. I got hungry.”

The next morning, he announced he was leaving for a few days to “get inspired.” Before he left, he grabbed my shoulders, his grip unusually strong. “Emily,” he said in a low, serious tone, “While I’m gone, don’t have anyone over. If Mr. Ramos, my editor, comes looking for me, tell him I went on a trip.”

Two hours later, Mr. Ramos was at my door. “I know Steven is home,” he said harshly. “Stop covering for him. We need the manuscript urgently.”

I repeated what Steven had told me. Mr. Ramos let out an ironic laugh. “Don’t lie to me. Mr. Vargas, your neighbor, told me he sees the attic light on late every single night. If Steven is working that much, he should have the manuscript ready!”

The attic light. The words hit me hard. The noises, the sausage, the puddle, the notebook, the plate, and now the light. Everything pointed to the attic.

I dragged the old folding ladder from the shed and placed it under the hatch. My heart pounded, not with fear, but with a cold determination. I pushed open the rusted latch and climbed up, my phone’s flashlight cutting through the darkness.

The attic was a chaotic space of old boxes and furniture draped in dusty sheets. But in the farthest corner was a small, tidy space: a wooden table, a chair, and a dimly lit oil lamp. And then I saw her.

A woman was sitting with her back to me. She was thin, with long, tangled white hair. The sound of a pencil scratching on paper was the only thing breaking the silence.

I froze, my throat closing up. “Who… who’s there?” I stammered.

The pencil stopped. The woman turned her head. Under the dim lamplight, her gaunt, pale face appeared. Her eyes were sunken and tired, but held a familiarity that made my world fall apart.

It was Marina. My sister. The face I hadn’t seen in thirty years. The sister my whole family believed was lost forever was here, in the attic of my house.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I helped her stand. Her every step was unsteady. The light from the house made her squint, like a creature of darkness seeing the sun for the first time.

When she finally calmed down, she began to speak in a broken whisper. She told me about a night thirty years ago. Richard, her boss, had tried to assault her. In the struggle, she grabbed a statue and hit him. The blow was too hard. Richard fell, motionless.

Just then, Steven showed up.

“I wanted to call the police, sister,” Marina cried, “but Steven wouldn’t let me. He said I’d go to jail, that I’d lose my whole life. He said he would protect me… for your sake.”

That night, Steven buried Richard’s body on a deserted hillside. Then he brought Marina to our house and hid her in the attic. “It’s just temporary,” he told her. But temporary turned into thirty years.

Steven skillfully spread a rumor that Marina and Richard were having an affair and had run off together with a large sum of money Richard had withdrawn. The investigation stalled. In the eyes of the world, Marina became a fugitive.

My tears were no longer from sadness, but from rage.

“To keep from going crazy, I started writing,” Marina continued. “One day, Steven found my writings. His eyes lit up. He said, ‘Marina, you have talent. Write… write for me. I will be your voice to the world.’”

Steven wasn’t a writer. He was a thief who had stolen Marina’s talent, turning her into a ghostwriter locked away in my own home. Every time she wanted to turn herself in, he threatened her, using her love for me as a weapon.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ve paid for my mistake for thirty years. Now I want to face real justice.”

The next morning, I took Marina to the police station. Her confession shook the entire department. The case was reopened. An investigation team found evidence of her captivity in the attic. Another team, following her directions, found Richard’s remains.

The arrest warrant for Steven was issued that same day. He didn’t resist. He just lowered his head as if he had always known this day would come.

I hired the best lawyer for Marina, but a few days later, the phone rang. A cold, formal voice on the other end. “Mrs. Emily, we regret to inform you, Marina Del Rosario took her own life at the detention center last night.”

The phone slipped from my hands. My world shattered all over again.

Marina left a letter. “Dear Sister Emily,” she wrote, “When you read this, I will finally be truly free. I lived as a ghost, and now it’s time for that ghost to fade away. The final manuscript is still in the attic… it’s the only work I wrote about myself. If you can, let it bear the name Marina Del Rosario.”

I knew I had to fulfill her last wish.

Steven’s trial became a national scandal. He was charged with multiple crimes and received a fitting sentence. I never saw him again.

I found Marina’s manuscript—an autobiography. It was a story of resilience, of a love for life, no matter how hard it was. The book was published under her real name. It became a phenomenon. Readers around the world were moved by her story, her talent, and her poetry.

Marina, though she was gone, finally became a true writer, recognized and loved. Her voice had been recovered. Justice, in some way, had been served. And I finally understood that no wall is thick enough to imprison the truth forever.