I rushed in and found her crumpled on the linoleum floor, clutching her hip and breathing hard through the pain.
"I think it's broken," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The ambulance came within ten minutes, and they rushed her straight into surgery.
The emergency department of a hospital | Source: Pexels
The emergency department of a hospital | Source: Pexels
The doctors said she'd fractured her hip in two places. At 75, that's no small thing. They kept telling us how lucky she was, how much worse it could have been, but Martha's always been tough as nails.
Even so, recovery at our age takes time.
While she was doing her rehab at the care facility, I stayed home alone for the first time in decades. The house felt too quiet and empty without her puttering around and humming those old songs she loves. I'd visit her every day, of course, but the evenings stretched long and lonely.
A house | Source: Pexels
A house | Source: Pexels
That's when I started hearing it.
Scratching. Slow and deliberate, coming from somewhere above my head. At first, I laughed it off and figured we had squirrels in the roof again. But this sound was different somehow. Too rhythmic, too purposeful. Like someone was dragging a piece of furniture across the floor.
My old Navy training kicked in, and I found myself listening more carefully. The sound would come in the evenings, always around the same time, always from the same spot. Right above the kitchen. Right below the attic.
An older man holding his glasses | Source: Pexels
An older man holding his glasses | Source: Pexels
My heart started thumping harder every time I heard it.
One night, I grabbed my old Navy flashlight and the spare keys Martha kept hidden in the kitchen drawer. I'd seen that ring of keys a thousand times over the years, keys to everything in our house and half the neighbors' too.
I climbed those creaky stairs and stood in front of that locked attic door. One by one, I tried every single key on Martha's ring, but none of them worked.
That struck me as mighty strange. Martha kept everything on that keyring.
The shed, the basement, the old filing cabinet, and even keys to cars we'd sold years ago. But not the attic key.
A set of keys on a table | Source: Pexels
A set of keys on a table | Source: Pexels
Finally, frustrated and more curious than ever, I went down to my toolbox and got a screwdriver. It took some doing, but I managed to pry that old lock right off the door.
The moment I pushed that door open, I sensed the musty and thick smell inside. It smelled like old books that had been locked away too long. But there was something else mixed in there too, something metallic that made my stomach turn.
I clicked on my flashlight and stepped inside.
A flashlight | Source: Pexels
A flashlight | Source: Pexels
At first glance, the room looked normal enough. Cardboard boxes stacked against the walls, old sheets draped over what looked like furniture, just like Martha had always said. But my flashlight beam kept getting drawn to the far corner of the room.
There, sitting by itself like it was waiting for someone, was an old oak trunk. Heavy-looking, with brass corners that had turned green with age. And locked tight with another padlock, this one even bigger than the one on the door.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at that trunk and listening to my own heartbeat echoing in the silence.
An old trunk | Source: Pexels
An old trunk | Source: Pexels
The next morning, I drove to the care facility for my usual visit.
Martha was doing her physical therapy, working hard to get her strength back, and she seemed in good spirits. I decided to test the waters and see how she'd react.
"Martha, honey," I said, settling into the chair beside her bed. "I've been hearing some scratching sounds at night. Thought maybe we had critters in the attic. What's in that old trunk you've got up there?"
The change in her was immediate and terrifying. All the color drained from her face in an instant. Her hands started shaking so badly she dropped the water glass she'd been holding, and it shattered on the floor.
A broken glass | Source: Pexels
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