A little boy slept in the attic on the third house of Walton Street. The night had set and the sun had long gone away. The boy missed the red of the sunset because his attic was far too dark to see and he could no longer read his favorite book.
The winds had picked up that night and made the house tremble, it was like the small rocking of a boat on a lake. The puttering of rain smacking his window was calming, and he became less afraid of the winds that gently rocked his home.
The soft blankets that kept the cold out began to make his sore eyes from reading close, making him doze but the crackling of his window kept waking him.
A small low sounding sob bounced off of his angular walls and reached his ears. His hands quickly pulled the blanket over his head. Distressed, he convinced himself that he had been sleeping there for a great many years and no ghost would possibly come out now.
The winds picked up again and shook the house harder, scaring the boy. He huddled under the blanket but the shaking seemed to reach his bed and the winds picked up harder than before. A low sob once again bounced off his walls, making his heart pound with terror.
To the boy the white angular walls felt like fingers clasping around his entire body. In fear, he threw the blankets off quickly and rushed down the steep stairs of his attic.
The boy's mother was only a small distance from him, she was sleeping soundly and with light snores. However the sleeping mother was soon awakened by her ten year old son who was scared witless.
His incessant shaking finally made her stand from her bed, put on a pair of slippers and head towards his bedroom, the attic.
The stairs croaked.
The mother, mature and calm, walked up the wooden stairs, the weight making more noise next to the thundering of the night. The low hum of the wind sounded out, the mother paused for a moment and continued.
Creak.
Her hands quickly flicked a light switch, the soft clack brightening the attic.
Her skin prickled.
The mother walked to the window and bent down, she opened the bright blue curtains.
Nothing.
“Look at the window, you see this small opening?” The mother pointed her finger to the plexiglass window that had slightly fallen off the frame. The glue had most likely once again worn off.
“It’s just the wind! It’s creating a high pitched whistle.” The mother grabbed the boy by the hem of his shirt and lowered him to listen closely.
Whoo.
“I-it doesn’t sound the same…”
The mother shook her head with sleepy frustration. “It’s just your imagination creating something. It’s just the wind.”
She stood from her knees, her slippers gliding against the rug that covered most of the boy's floor, a dark gray rug. Her hands reached for the railing as her foot went for the first step of stairs.
A loud crack screamed in her ears as a flash of light covered the attic in a deep blue hue. Small cold hands pressed into her nightgown and she fluttered down the steps.
Excruciating pain consumed her body and she could slowly feel herself losing strength. She felt the need to scream but could not let out the slightest whisper. Her limp body stuck to the floor but her eyes frantically looked around herself.
A small silhouette of a boy stood behind the door that led to the attic. He covered his mouth with the palm of his hand, two clear streams of tears flowed down his flushed cheeks. He breathed heavily.
Her vision slowly started to move up, a shadow of black had grasped her ankle dragging her up the wooden stairs. A sob rang out, and a small “Mommy…” resounded into the night.
Her vision went black, she fell into the abyss of death.
