Flash Fiction: The Thing Upstairs

I never believed in ghosts. I still don’t, not really. But something’s living in our attic, and it’s not a raccoon.

We moved into this old Victorian house three months ago. It had character—wide creaky floorboards, stained-glass windows that caught the sun just right, and that musty charm of a place with a past. My wife called it “haunted chic.” I called it a money pit.

It started with small things. Scratching sounds at night. Nothing too unusual, especially in an old house. I figured it was squirrels, maybe bats. Then the attic light began turning on by itself. It’s one of those pull-cord bulbs, the kind you have to really tug to get going. No switches, no timers. Just a bulb, a cord, and apparently… someone else’s hand.

I went up once, thinking I’d catch the culprit red-handed—or pawed, if it was some clever raccoon. But there was nothing. Just dust, insulation, and a few abandoned boxes left by the previous owners. I stood there for a while, letting the silence wrap around me like cobwebs. Then the bulb went out.

I hadn’t touched it.

That was the first night I heard the footsteps. They weren’t animal sounds. They were slow. Deliberate. Like someone walking in circles above our bedroom. My wife heard them too. She clutched my arm and whispered, “Do you think it’s… haunted?”

I laughed, but it felt hollow.

Things escalated. Doors slammed on their own. Cups flew off shelves. The baby monitor picked up whispering—low, breathy sounds that didn’t belong to any of us. Once, I came home and all the chairs were stacked on the dining table. My wife thought I did it. I thought she was losing her mind.

We called a contractor to check for structural issues. He went into the attic and came back down pale and shaking. “You’ve got… you’ve got something up there,” he said, eyes wide, like he wanted to say more but couldn’t. He didn’t finish the job. Never even came back for his tools.

I finally set up a camera. Just a cheap motion-sensor one I bought online. I left it up there for a week. Every night, it triggered around 2:14 a.m. I reviewed the footage—and there was nothing. Just flickering light, shadows shifting unnaturally, and a faint hum, like someone singing off-key through a mouth full of water.

The last video, though… that one was different.

At exactly 2:14, the camera glitched. Then it tilted, as if someone was holding it, examining it. There was a flash of white—a face, maybe, too close to the lens. No eyes. Just the outline of a head, wide and wrong. Then static.

We moved the next day.

But sometimes, late at night, I still hear the creaking footsteps. Even in this new house. Even with no attic above me.

And I’ve started waking up at 2:14 a.m. every night, like clockwork.

Thank-you for reading.

Much Love and Light,

Brenda Marie