"Time for bed," she calls eventually, breaking the cycle. It's the only order I ever wait to obey, every night revealing worlds beyond my bedroom, loneliness wrapped in the soft blanket of moonlight.
When the lights flicker, I swear I hear laughter in the dark. Was it the scarecrow or something older? I slip out of bed, my feet finding the cool wood floor again, whispering promises to take me anywhere but here. I can taste the crispness of night air as I wander to the hallway.
The attic door stands slightly ajar, a slender sliver of darkness beckoning me forth. I inhale deeply, holding my breath. Perhaps tonight, the shadow will reveal its name to me. The cornfield hums beyond, persistently counting windows, and I am acutely aware that somewhere, beneath the weight of our shared encumbrance, something lies in wait.
I creep forward, a ghost in my own house, the floorboards creaking conspiratorially beneath me. The attic looms at the end of the hallway, a silhouette against the dim light. I pause, feeling the pulse of the home around me—its heart still beating, even if it aches. The air thickens, a siren song whispering my name, urging me to venture into the unknown.
With a tentative push, the attic door swings inward, and I am met with the scent of forgotten things—old books, moth-eaten blankets, and dust motes swirling like trapped dreams. My eyes adjust, and I see shadows cast by the moon filtering through a small window,