Off The Record
I Heard Strange Noises In My Attic—The Hidden Cameras Revealed A Nightmare
I didn’t anticipate the odd noises coming from the attic every night when I moved into my late father’s house; instead, I imagined creaking flooring and ancient pipes. When I eventually installed concealed cameras, my curiosity gave way to terror, and what I saw caused me to reevaluate everything I had assumed about him.
Every conclusion is only the start. As I stood among boxes in the deserted hallway of my father’s house, I kept reminding myself that. Even if you’re not ready, endings always force you to try something new.
Every conclusion is merely the start.
It had been over a decade since I last spoke to my father. His ability to close doors without smashing them was the reason, not some violent altercation or treachery.
I just realized one day that we hadn’t spoken for months, then years, and I wasn’t even sure when the gap between us had grown irreversible.
I didn’t precisely feel sad when he passed away. More like a longing for something that was never truly ours.
It had been over a decade since I last spoke to my father.
I now owned the house. As he gave me the keys and a little envelope bearing my father’s handwriting, the lawyer added that.
He had written about the house, including the boiler that needed to be replaced, the flickering light in the hallway, and the damaged stair on the back porch. commonplace, useful items. However, the words ceased in the middle of a phrase near the end.
“And the most crucial thing you should be aware of is…”
I now owned the house.
That was it. No more. I have no idea.
No one could tell me what my father’s final sentence was supposed to be because he had passed away before it was completed.
It was already getting dark when I had completed unloading. Too exhausted to notice that the ancient couch smelled like the attic, I collapsed into it.
My father had passed away before completing his final sentence.
Why, of all people, had he left the house to me?
He had three options: sell it, donate it to a worthy cause, or leave it to a buddy I was unaware of. He left it to me, his daughter, whom he hardly knew, instead.
I was surrounded by his belongings, trying to understand who he truly was, even though he had lived his entire life keeping everyone and everything at a distance.
Why, of all people, had he left the house to me?
My eyes were about to close when the doorbell rang. I moaned and pushed myself to stand.
A gray-haired woman wearing a knitted cardigan stood on the porch.
“Hello,” she said. “All I wanted to know was who had moved in. I assume you’re Richard’s daughter.”
On the porch, a woman was standing.
I gave a nod. “Yes, I am.”
She remarked, “Oh, he was such a wonderful man.” “Always lending a hand to everyone here.” When I fractured my leg last year, he even brought me food.
I assumed she was kidding for a moment. Are you certain that we are discussing the same individual?I inquired.
“Oh, what a great man he was.”
She laughed and answered, “Of course.” “Kind, courteous, and always willing to talk.” You’re fortunate to have had such a father.
It’s good to hear that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs—
Before going back down the stairs, she murmured kindly, “Oh, please, call me Jean.”
“You are fortunate to have had a father such as him.”
I leaned against the door and slowly closed it.
Kind and helpful, my father?
Perhaps she simply needed to believe in decent neighbors, or perhaps she was old enough to misidentify faces.
Kind and helpful, my father?
With a groan, I went to my room and collapsed on the bed. I heard it as sleep started to drag me down.
A little rustling. Above me, somewhere.
Another faint sound, as if the ceiling were moving.
“Please, don’t let it be rats,” I mumbled into the darkness after exhaling.
A little rustling
I made the decision the next morning that I had to make this home my own, or at least attempt, if I was going to live here.
So we had to start with what my dad had left. The only room I hadn’t yet visited was his office, which was down the hall.
The room had a single chair with broken leather armrests, tall bookcases, and a hefty wooden desk, much like I remembered from my childhood.
I had to claim this property as my own if I was going to live here.
A photo album with a faded brown cover and worn corners was resting on the desk. I opened it after hesitating.
I was shown in the first picture holding a toy rabbit while having gap teeth and untidy hair. Every smile was stuck in time as high school and college arrived.
Every moment he had missed, he had preserved them all. It seemed odd, as though a stranger was gathering fragments of my life without ever attempting to share any of it with me.
There was a photo album on the desk.
In an attempt to get rid of the weird discomfort it had left behind, I closed the album. I spent the next few hours going through his belongings.
I created three piles: discard, donate, and retain. I was worn out and had dust on my hands by the time I finished.
I made the decision to drive to the grocery shop and take a break. With the exception of a jar of mustard that had likely lasted two presidents, the refrigerator was nearly empty.
I was worn out by the time I finished.
It was getting late in the afternoon when I returned. I discovered an unsealed cereal box with the words “For Tommy” written on it while unpacking groceries.
Tommy?
I had never heard of somebody with that name. Before I could call Mom, I reached for my phone and heard a huge thud coming from the attic, as if something big had fallen.
For Tommy.
I ascended the slender stairs and looked around the dusty room. Everything appeared to be in its proper position, yet I was drawn to one wall.
The wood had faint seams that resembled a secret entrance. I felt it, looking for a latch, but I couldn’t find one.
I went back downstairs, feeling uneasy, and at last called Mom.
Everything appeared to be in its proper place.
“How is the house doing?” She inquired.
“Spooky,” I confessed. “I discovered a box of cereal marked For Tommy.” According to the neighbor, Dad was a kind and helpful man. “You think so?”
Mom gave a little sigh. “Emma, your father wasn’t a horrible person. He simply had no idea how to express himself. Some folks have quiet, intricate ways of loving.”
“Unsettling”
“The word for it is complicated,” I mumbled. “I discovered a photo album as well. Using my photos. Have you forwarded these to him?”
“Yes,” she replied. “He requested all of them from me. He was curious about your well-being.”
“Therefore, he desired to see me but was unable to do so.”
“I discovered a photo album as well.”
His love for you was tender, Mom stated. He simply had no idea how to be a father. He didn’t have one growing up. For him, it wasn’t simple.
A faint creak reverberated above me before I could reply. Then another. I tensed up. “I’ll give you a call back, Mom.”
With my heart racing, I ascended the stairs once more and swept the light beam across the attic floor.
“He cherished you.”
This time, the dusty rug was surrounded by small crumbs, the same kind that comes from breakfast.
I knelt down and rubbed them with my fingertips. They were new.
“Excellent,” I muttered. “Mice.”
A dirty carpeting was surrounded by small crumbs.
Days went by, and not a single trap I had placed throughout the attic caught anything. However, the noises continued.
There was a squeak, a slight thump, or that same gentle shuffling that I couldn’t quite identify every night.
I had climbed up there innumerable times, searching every inch with my flashlight for a reason, but everything always appeared the same.
There was a squeak every night.
Jean was waiting by her gate one evening when I pulled into the driveway.
She added, “I’m so sorry to bother you, Emma, sweetheart.” “My security footage stopped functioning. Would you please have a look? Since you’re younger than I am, you most likely comprehend these concepts better.”
“I can try, but I’m not very good with technology.”
“Would you please have a look?”
I took a seat at her desk in her comfortable living room and navigated the system. All of the feeds from the cameras were clear.
I answered, “They’re working.”
Jean scowled. “Oh, how sad. I must have dreamed it at the time. On one of the movies, I thought I spotted something odd that appeared to be a light in your attic. However, isn’t there no light up there?”
“Oh, how sad. I must have dreamed it at the time.”
“No. There isn’t.”
“There must have been some sort of reflection. In any case, thank you, my love.”
I tried to smile politely, but her remarks continued to replay in my mind as I made my way home. There’s a light upstairs. The attic without a light.
An attic light
I finally made the decision to purchase cameras, as any restless, mildly paranoid person would.
Only enough to cover the attic’s corners, a tiny set. Setting them up, connecting the stream to my laptop, and examining every viewpoint took me half of the evening.
Hours went by. I watched the live feed while sitting in bed till my eyelids got weary. My final memory is of urging myself to take a quick break.
I purchased cameras.
I was startled awake by a loud crash. It was from above. When I thought of the cameras, I stopped myself from jumping out of bed.
As I opened the laptop, my hands were shaking.
All I saw at first was blackness. Then motion. A figure, followed by the distinct outline of a lady.
I was startled awake by a loud crash.
She walked cautiously across the floor of the attic. I could tell she was young because the infrared light from the camera briefly captured her face.
A faint glimmer spilled from the open wall behind her, the one with the seams.
I gasped. I slammed the laptop down and sprinted for the attic steps, the screen blurring.
With caution, she walked across the attic floor.
There was silence when I pushed the door open. A dull sound followed, and by the time I got to the top, the secret door had once more been shut.
“I’m positive someone is here!” I yelled. “Come out now!”
No answer.
I added more loudly, “I have you on video.” “I’m going to call the cops if you don’t come out!”
“I’m positive someone is here!”
There was silence for a few seconds. Then— click. The turning sound of a lock. Slowly, the secret door opened to reveal a young woman holding a little, drowsy boy.
The youngster gave his eyes a massage. “What woke me up, the woman?” he muttered. The woman gently silenced him.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
“What woke me up, the woman?”
“This is where we reside.”
“You live here? What do you mean?”
She answered, “Your father allowed us to stay.” We had nowhere to go, he discovered. He instructed me to protect Tommy.
I was shocked by the name. “Tommy?” I inquired. She gave a nod.
“You live here? What do you mean?”
“So what’s the reason behind your attic hiding?”
“He instructed us to. He advised us to remain here until you arrived in case something happened to him. You’d know what to do, he said. that a letter would be sent.”
I thought about the incomplete note on my bedside table. The most crucial thing you must understand is
“You’d know what to do,” he added. that a letter would be sent.
“He didn’t finish it,” I muttered. “He passed away before doing so.”
He wanted to share our story with you. He admitted that he had been a bad father and a bad man, but he wanted to take action now before it was too late.
Uncertain of how to react, I gazed at her. “This sounds impractical.”
“He didn’t complete it.”
“I understand,” she said. However, it is true. When no one else would, he came to my aid. He frequently mentioned you and expressed his desire to have been different.
We were silent for a long time.
The boy in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder, caught my attention.
“When no one else would, he helped me.”
“Come downstairs,” I said at last. “You cannot continue to reside up here. Remain inside the house. I will assist you until you secure employment.”
She gave a headshake. “I am unable to. You call it home.”
“No,” I muttered. “It belongs to you more than to me.”
“Remain inside the house.”
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