☕️ Alice’s Mad Tea Party Presents:
🫖 Alice Spills the Tea: Noises in the Attic
Oh, darlings, it’s time to get cozy, because I’ve got a story that’ll have you peeking nervously into the corners of your room, checking for anything that goes bump in the night. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The sounds in the attic. You’ve heard them, I’m sure. Late at night, when everything’s still, and the house creaks like it’s got a life of its own. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me set the scene.
Our tale begins with a house. A perfectly ordinary, albeit old, house. It had all the charm one would expect—a creaky staircase, faded wallpaper, and a very questionable attic. You see, attics have always been a bit... suspicious. Too dusty, too quiet, and too far removed from the rest of the house. But this house? Oh, this house had a particularly special attic.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Alice, not another creepy attic story.” Oh, but this one, darling, is different. Trust me. It’s one for the books.
Meet Eleanor. A sweet young woman who had just moved into this very house, drawn by its charm and quiet elegance. She’d been searching for peace, a place where she could escape the hustle and bustle of city life. Little did she know, the attic was the least peaceful part of the house.
At first, Eleanor didn’t think much of the attic. It was just another part of the house, full of forgotten things and cobwebs. But when she started hearing noises, well, that’s when things took a turn.
It started small. A soft scuffling, like something—or someone—was moving around up there. Eleanor chalked it up to the house settling. Maybe a mouse. Maybe the wind. But then, the noises grew louder.
Thud. Shuffle. Scrape.
It wasn’t just the wind. It wasn’t the house settling. Something—or someone—was in the attic. Eleanor’s curiosity got the better of her, of course. She had to investigate. So, one night, when the noises were at their peak, she grabbed a flashlight and made her way up to the attic.
Now, darling, I know what you’re thinking. Why would anyone go up there? But Eleanor? She was brave. Or maybe just foolish. Who’s to say?
As she opened the door to the attic, a cold gust of air rushed past her. The scent of old wood and dust filled her nose. The flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing piles of old boxes, forgotten furniture, and shattered picture frames. But there, in the corner, by the far window... was something else.
At first, it was just a shadow. A movement so quick, Eleanor barely had time to react. Then it came again. A figure, tall and thin, moving in the dark, like a wisp of smoke. Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught in her throat.
It was too fast, too elusive. She couldn’t make out the details. But she knew one thing for certain—it wasn’t just a trick of the light.
And then came the whispers.
Low, guttural whispers that filled the attic like a swarm of angry bees. Eleanor spun around, scanning the room, but she couldn’t find the source. The whispers weren’t coming from anything. They were coming from everywhere.
"Leave… leave… leave…"
The words were clear now. And they weren’t her thoughts. No, these were thoughts from something else. Something old. Something trapped.
Eleanor wanted to run. But her feet were frozen to the floor. She stood there, helpless, watching as the shadow in the corner began to take shape. The figure grew more distinct, more solid, until Eleanor could see it clearly.
A man. But not a normal man. No, darling. This one was different. His face was pale as death, with hollow eyes that seemed to stare right through her. His clothes were tattered, like he’d been wearing them for centuries. And his mouth? Oh, his mouth was stretched into a smile that was anything but comforting.
“Why have you come?” he asked, his voice raspy, like it hadn’t been used in a hundred years.
Eleanor didn’t have an answer. She didn’t even know why she’d come up there in the first place. But it didn’t matter. The man—if you could call him that—wasn’t interested in her reasons. He had other things in mind.
With a sudden lurch, the shadow leapt toward her. Its fingers were long, bony, and clawed, reaching out to grab her. But Eleanor, in a moment of sheer panic, broke free from her paralysis and ran. She bolted down the stairs, slamming the attic door behind her.
The noise stopped. The whispers ceased. The house grew still again, but Eleanor’s heart was still racing.
That night, she didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those hollow eyes staring at her. Every time she tried to breathe, she could feel the cold air of the attic creeping into her room.
Eleanor never went back up there. She locked the attic door and never dared to open it again. But the house—oh, darling, the house didn’t forget. And neither did the thing in the attic.
To this day, if you stand in the right spot outside the house, you’ll hear it—the sound of soft footsteps, slow and deliberate, pacing across the attic floor. And sometimes, if you listen closely enough, you might even hear the whispers.
“Leave… leave… leave…”
So, next time you hear something moving around up there, in your own attic or elsewhere, darling, remember Eleanor’s story. It’s not the house settling, or the wind creaking the rafters. No. It’s something much worse. And it’s been waiting. Waiting for someone—anyone—to open that door again.
Trust me, darling. You don’t want to know what happens when you do.
