Glittering trinkets lay draped over the many cardboard boxes that were scattered across the cluttered attic floor, coated in a fine layer of dust. A musty smell hung in the air alongside the cobwebs that furnished the sagging roof. As you scavenged through box after box, tossing one man’s trash and another man’s treasure into meaningless piles, you heaved a sigh of boredom and severely regretted your impulsive decision to clean out this mess.
Standing up and stretching your stiff limbs, you noticed a glimmer of gold buried beneath a mountain of junk. You were drawn to it, and bending to pick it up, you realised it was an inscription on a book. The lettering seemed to be in a foreign script that you couldn’t recognise, and it stood out brashly on the faded leather cover. The book looked close to falling apart, but as you flipped through it, its intactness surprised you. An odd variety of shapes in a multitude of colours decorated the creamy-white pages, and none of it appeared to make any sense until about halfway through, where words of English stood out in a flourishing, inked script.
You scanned a couple of pages and realised that this book was some sort of a diary. The first date was neatly written in the top left corner and read ‘14th December, 1867.’
That explained the tattered cover. The entry, as you skimmed it, was extremely unusual and described visions of the writer which, in your opinion, were absolutely nonsensical.
‘I saw it today. I saw it again, and it was there, watching over me. It was hazy and colourless and I am convinced that it is not of this world. It can only be, then, a supernatural being, and I am yet to confirm whether it is of a malicious intent. As of now, it has not committed any acts of harm, but it has not communicated in any way other than making its presence known. And I swear I could feel it, hovering over me, although it was hard to distinguish in the dim light. It has only, so far, emerged in the darkest of nights, and I suspect that it is afraid of being noticed.’
Whoever wrote this seems quite mad, you thought to yourself. The owner of this diary had clearly been ailing from an illness of the mind. Ghosts, you scoffed, what a ridiculous idea.
It only got worse as you kept reading, though; the entries became increasingly hysterical and began to theorise more about the intentions of the so-called being.
‘It looked after me as I slept. It was present in my dreams and it gave me a sign that, despite my endless research after waking, I was not able to interpret. It may have been some type of warning; however, I am almost certain that this ‘ghost’ is harmless, and alternatively, means well. What it may have been trying to tell me, I cannot say, but its regular appearances must be of importance.’
Another entry, further on, was dated for the 18th:
‘It spoke. I heard it, but I could not understand it. It spoke and I hypothesise that the strange dialect in which it spoke can only be the one that is engraved on the cover of this diary. I do not recognise it, nor do I know what the connection signifies, but I have a strong feeling about this. I have been awake for many hours now pondering over its speech but my hard work has been to no avail, for no scrolls hold the key to the answer I seek. Its voice was low and inhumane. It was not sweet to the ear; rather, it was crude and husky, and I identified nothing that was in any way similar to any language spoken on this earth.’
There was one more, and it was written differently- in a more haphazard manner, where the letters were uneven and the writing nearly illegible, scrawled over the paper. Blots of ink defaced the page and made it even more difficult to decipher its contents.
‘I came face-to-face with it, and it looked me in the eye and said:
“Beware of the attic.”
Since then I have not been upstairs in fear of what horrors it may hold, despite having searched it only yesterday for clues that may assist me in gaining more knowledge on the otherworld and its beings. However, curiosity may have the best of me, for I cannot resist exploring it, and perhaps bringing me closer to a solution I simply must find. I plan to visit it today, and maybe even catch another glimpse of the spirit, if it realises that I have disregarded its word.’
Cold sweat beaded on your forehead. You were in half a mind to fling the journal out of the window and escape down the stairs into the safety of your bedroom, but your interest had the upper hand and you read on.
‘It has a face. Its visage is human, but it, itself, is not. It has eyes of the deepest marine blue, unlike any I have seen before. Its hair- the darkest ebony black, and unkempt, like the moss of the forest floor. Everything about it stands out so prominently that melts together until its features become unrecognisable. I remember so faintly that it had a pointed nose, albeit I can no longer be sure. It stood tall before me, drawn up to its full height, of about a head taller than I am now, and its skin was a pale, pale white- an unearthly white- that heavily contrasts to its shock of hair and piercing eyes.
I do not know why I was able to see it today, and I dread that this may be the last time that I see it. Nevertheless, I still hold hope that it may once more materialise in the attic, which I have now set my heart on investigating. My next entry, then, will be of my glorious findings and will reveal all there is to be known about this spirit that so consumes my mind and my thoughts.’
You let out a gasp of shock. Flipping the page frantically, you found that, if anything else had been written, it had been torn out, and only shreds of paper and blank pages remained. A chill ran up your spine.
After the silence had faded and the sun had long dipped behind the horizon, the only sound that lingered was the screaming of the crickets outside and the heavy beating of your heart. As you slowly lifted your head from the book, you caught a flash of your reflection in a shard of silver on the floor.
Your trembling image gazed back at you, an ivory figure with dark hair, blue eyes, and a pointed nose.
