They say summer smells like sunscreen and ocean breeze.
Magnolia Street, however, smells like mothballs and something faintly sweet, like flowers that have been dead for weeks.
I stand in front of my grandmother's house, suitcase in hand, watching the lace curtains twitch even though no one's inside. At least, no one living.
The porch sags under my weight as I climb the three steps. Paint flakes off the railings and sticks to my palm, leaving white specks like dandruff. The key my mother gave me is old brass, warm from my pocket, and when I slot it into the lock, the door resists, like it doesn't want to open for me.
When it finally swings wide, the air is thick—humid, unmoving, as if the windows have been sealed shut for years. Dust motes swirl lazily in the slanted light from the hallway.
I roll my suitcase inside, the wheels making an ugly scraping noise against the warped wooden floor.
"Gran?" I call out, though I already know she's not here. She's in the hospital for the next two weeks, which is why I've been sent to "look after" the house.
Look after.
Like the house is a child, or a pet.
The living room is frozen in time—doilies on every armrest, framed photographs of people I half-recognize, and a grandfather clock that's either broken or holding its breath.
But what catches my eye isn't any of that.
It's the attic door.
It's closed, but the thin chain lock dangles loosely, swaying as if someone has just slipped inside.
I don't go up—not yet. Instead, I set my suitcase down in the guest room and try to shake off the unease crawling under my skin. This house is just old. Old houses make noises. That's it.
And then I hear it.
A faint, crackling hum.
Like a needle pressing into vinyl.
I freeze.
It's coming from above me.
The attic.
The sound is soft at first.
A whisper of static, the ghost of a melody, drifting down through the ceiling.
I tell myself it's just the wind rattling something in the attic.
Except Magnolia Street doesn't have wind right now—the air outside is still, heavy enough to press against your ribs.
Against my better judgment, I grab the hallway chair and drag it beneath the attic hatch. The legs screech on the wood, the sound sharp and ugly in the silence.
I climb, heart thumping like I'm breaking into someone's bedroom instead of my own grandmother's storage space.
The metal latch is cold under my fingers. I flip it open and push the hatch up.
A stale wave of air hits me, thick with the smell of dust and something faintly sweet, almost like wilted magnolia blossoms.
I poke my head through.
The attic is dim, lit only by thin blades of sunlight slicing through the slats. Cobwebs lace the beams. Cardboard boxes lean against each other like tired old men.
And in the middle of the floor, there it is.
A record player.
It's not plugged into anything—not that I can see—but the turntable spins lazily, the black vinyl gleaming under a shaft of light. The music is faint now, as if it knows I'm here.
I climb up the rest of the way, brushing dust off my jeans. The wood creaks under my weight.
The player is… old. Not just vintage. The kind of old that makes your skin prickle, like it's seen more years than it should. The center label on the record is worn to almost nothing, the letters faded into ghostly smudges.
But the song—
The song is wrong.
It's a waltz, yes. Three beats to a bar. But every third note dips too low, like someone stretched the sound until it warped. It makes my stomach turn, like the ground is tilting.
I reach for the needle, intending to stop it. My fingers hover just an inch away—
—and the music swells.
Not like an instrument getting louder.
Like a voice, sighing right against my ear.
"Elara…"
I jerk back so hard my shoulder hits a beam. The record player keeps spinning.
The voice is gone.
I don't remember telling it my name.
My breath fogs in the air, even though the attic should be stifling hot.
The melody drags on, each warped note snagging at the edge of my mind like fishhooks. I tell myself to leave it, to climb back down, close the hatch, and pretend this thing doesn't exist.
But I can't.
The way it plays—like it's waiting—pins me in place.
Almost without realizing, I lower the needle back onto the groove.
The crackle swallows the attic whole, and the waltz restarts.
Only… it's fuller now.
I hear layers beneath it—faint humming, maybe a woman's voice, her pitch threading perfectly between the strings. Her voice is not singing words I understand. It's vowels stretched thin, consonants slipping like glass across the tongue.
The floor under my feet trembles, as if the beams are bowing to the rhythm.
Then the light shifts.
The attic windows—thin and dusty a second ago—are now glowing faintly gold, like sunset caught inside the glass. Dust motes swirl faster, coiling into shapes. I squint, and for a moment, I swear I see them forming the outline of hands.
They reach toward me.
"Stop," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the music.
The record spins faster. The voice in the song sharpens, words slamming into my head—not through my ears, but directly into my thoughts.
"Dance."
My legs move before I can protest. Not a graceful dance—more like my body is being tugged by invisible strings. The attic spins with me, the golden light bending into a spiral.
Somewhere deep in my chest, panic blooms. My hands claw at the air, trying to grab anything solid, but the music is stronger, pulling me into a circle, again and again—
Until the needle scratches hard across the vinyl.
Silence.
The attic is still. The light is gone.
The record player has stopped.
I'm standing dead center in the room, my hair clinging damp to my face, heart hammering so hard it hurts.
And from somewhere beneath the floorboards—downstairs, in the supposedly empty
house—comes the faint sound of footsteps.