Peek and look

Matilda

The air hung heavy in the old house, thick with the scent of dust and decay. Moonlight, filtering through the cracked windowpanes, painted the room in ghostly shades of silver and grey. I sat on the creaking floorboards, staring at the worn, leather-bound book in my lap. It was inscribed with a single word, scrawled in elegant, spidery handwriting: Matilda.

For years, I'd heard whispers about Matilda, tales passed down through generations in my family. A woman, they said, with eyes like burning embers and a smile that could freeze the blood. A woman who'd been buried alive, her spirit eternally trapped within the walls of this very house.

My grandfather, a man of reason and logic, had scoffed at the stories. He claimed it was all just superstition, old wives' tales to scare children. But my grandmother, her eyes filled with a knowing dread, would always shake her head and whisper, 'Don't ever go near the attic, child. Not after dark.'

My grandfather passed away when I was young, and the house, with its shadowed corners and creaking floorboards, fell into disrepair. Yet, the stories persisted, echoing through the empty rooms. And the attic, with its heavy, rusted door, remained a forbidden zone.

But tonight, I was drawn to it. A strange curiosity gnawed at me, fueled by the whispers and the shadows. I was determined to uncover the truth behind Matilda, to finally silence the whispers that haunted my dreams.

The door creaked open with a groan, its rusted hinges protesting the intrusion. The attic air, thick with the scent of dust and decay, struck me with a force that sent shivers down my spine. The room was shrouded in darkness, save for a single sliver of moonlight that pierced through a crack in the roof.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw an old, dusty trunk, its brass clasps tarnished with time. It lay in the center of the room, like a solitary sentinel guarding secrets. I approached it cautiously, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I lifted the heavy lid, and a cold wave of air swept over my face, carrying with it a faint, musky odor. Inside, nestled amongst layers of faded fabric and dried herbs, lay a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age.

I flipped it open, the brittle pages rustling like dry leaves. The ink, faded but still legible, spoke of a life that was both ordinary and extraordinary. Matilda, a woman of beauty and grace, with a spirit that shone brighter than any star.

But the journal's tone shifted, the words becoming darker, more desperate. It spoke of a consuming love, a love that turned possessive, that choked the life out of her. It spoke of being trapped, of the suffocating silence of her tomb, of the endless night that surrounded her.

The words on the page blurred, the room swirling around me. I felt a presence, cold and heavy, pressing down on me. A whisper, barely audible, grazed my ear, laced with a chillingly familiar melody.

"You shouldn't have come," it hissed, the voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind.

I slammed the journal shut, my hands shaking. My eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the voice, but found nothing but darkness. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in, suffocating me.

Suddenly, the air grew icy cold. A gust of wind, unseen and unheard, swirled through the room, extinguishing the moonlight that had been streaming through the crack in the roof. The darkness became absolute, consuming everything.

Then, I saw them. Two glowing eyes, like burning embers, materialized in the darkness. They stared at me, filled with a cold, unyielding fury.

I backed away, fear paralyzing me. But it was too late. The air crackled with a strange energy, and a cold hand, skeletal and bony, wrapped around my throat. I gasped for air, my lungs burning. The eyes, closer now, seemed to pierce my soul.

"You shouldn't have come," the whisper hissed again, this time closer, more menacing. "This is my home. My prison."

The pressure around my neck tightened, my vision blurring. I struggled against the unseen force, but it was futile. My breath caught in my throat, my body growing numb.

As darkness enveloped me, I saw a flicker of something in the embers of the eyes. Not fury, but sadness, a deep, bottomless sorrow. It was a sorrow I understood, a sorrow that was familiar, a sorrow that echoed the whispers I had heard for so long, the whispers of a woman forever trapped, forever alone.

And then, darkness consumed me completely. The whispers died down, leaving only the silence of the attic and the soft, unsettling rustle of the old house settling around me.