Whispers in the Attic

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long, ominous shadows across the dilapidated mansion that had once been a symbol of prosperity in the Twentieth Century. Now, it stood as a relic of a bygone era, its windows fogged with the breath of a cold wind that whispered tales of the cursed past.

The curator, Eliza, stood in the foyer, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the antique wood. She was no stranger to the mansion's dark history; it was her job to uncover and document its secrets. Today, however, the weight of her mission was heavier than ever.

The mansion was to be auctioned off, and Eliza had been brought in to oversee the final preparations. It was during one of her routine inspections that her eye caught the faint outline of a door hidden behind a tapestry in the corner of the attic. The door had a peculiar handle that seemed to shift slightly when touched.

Her curiosity piqued, Eliza climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the attic. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old wood, a reminder of the mansion's age. She approached the door and turned the handle, feeling a strange sensation of dread grip her heart. The door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit room.

The room was filled with old trunks and boxes, their contents long forgotten. Eliza moved closer, her eyes scanning the room for anything of interest. As she reached for one of the boxes, a faint whisper filled the air, echoing through the attic.

"Eliza," the voice was faint but clear, coming from the far end of the room.

She spun around, searching for the source of the sound. There, in the corner, was a small, dusty mirror. She approached it cautiously, and as she did, the voice grew louder.

"Eliza, don't go near that mirror."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached out and touched the mirror's frame. It was cold to the touch, and for a moment, she felt as if she were being pulled toward it. She stepped back, her mind racing.

What was this place? What were these whispers? She needed answers, and fast.

Eliza rummaged through the boxes, looking for anything that might explain the mystery. It wasn't long before she found a dusty, leather-bound journal. She opened it and began to read, her eyes wide with shock.

The journal belonged to a woman named Margaret, who had lived in the mansion in the early 1900s. Margaret had been a sculptor, but she had also been obsessed with capturing the essence of the supernatural. The journal was filled with her theories and experiments, some of which bordered on the bizarre.

One entry, in particular, caught Eliza's attention. Margaret had written about a cursed mirror that she believed could see through time. She had claimed that it had the power to show the future and the past, but only to those who were willing to pay the price.

Eliza's mind raced. The mirror... the whispers... Could there be a connection? She had to know more.

Determined, she returned to the mirror, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch it again. This time, the whisper was louder, more insistent.

"Eliza, look at me."

She hesitated for a moment, then pressed her face against the glass. At first, all she saw was her own reflection, but then, the image began to change. She saw Margaret standing in the same room, her eyes wide with fear.

"Eliza, run! Run from the mirror!"

Margaret's image vanished, and Eliza was left staring at her own reflection once more. She turned to flee, but it was too late. The room seemed to close in on her, the air becoming thick and suffocating.

Desperate, she turned back to the mirror, her fingers grazing its surface. This time, the reflection showed a different scene. She was in a different room, standing before a large, ornate box. Inside the box, she saw a figure bound and gagged.

It was her own reflection, trapped and desperate.

Eliza's scream echoed through the attic, and she felt the mirror shiver under her touch. Suddenly, the room seemed to spin around her, and she lost her balance, crashing to the ground. She rolled over and saw the mirror standing in the corner, its surface crackling with an eerie light.

"Eliza, no! Don't go to the mirror!"

The voice was stronger now, more insistent. She pushed herself up and stumbled toward the door, but it was locked. She turned back to the mirror, her eyes wide with terror. This time, the reflection showed a different scene—a room filled with flames, and within them, she saw herself, screaming.

"Eliza! No! Run away!"

The voice was louder, more desperate, and Eliza finally understood. She had to leave the attic, to run as far and as fast as she could. She pounded on the door, her voice echoing through the empty mansion, but there was no answer.

With a final, desperate push, Eliza burst through the door and stumbled down the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't stop running until she reached the front gates of the mansion, where she collapsed in the dirt, her body shaking with fear.

As she lay there, the mansion's shadows began to close in on her, the whispers growing louder and more insistent. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, hoping for an end to the nightmare.

But the whispers continued, echoing in her mind, a reminder of the cursed Twentieth Century and the dark secrets it held.