The Attic

When the room went dark, she heard her name.

“Frieda...”

Frieda spun around, her chestnut braids flying like streamers. It was barely more than a whisper—an ethereal sound drifting through the cold attic air, like the mist escaping her lips with each breath. The oil lantern she held in one trembling hand had cloaked her in a faint, but comforting, circle of amber light just seconds before. But then, without warning, the light went out, leaving her in suffocating darkness. Had the voice been real?

Outside, the night sky was covered with dark clouds that crawled across it, driven by a biting autumn wind that moaned and howled through the attic’s shattered windows. Precious few stars peeked through the gloom, like light shining through pinholes in a black curtain. Even the moon had hidden its face, giving off almost no light at all.

Frieda’s heart pounded. She never should have come to this dreadful place. An abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was no place for a teenage girl. If not for the ‘Kaiser’s war’—as Papa called it—she would still be in Hamburg, warm and safe.

Frieda pulled her thick wool cardigan with its mismatched buttons tighter around her. She was shaking, but she couldn’t tell whether it was from fear or cold. Her eyes began adjusting to the darkness, and she was able to make out some of her surroundings. The old attic was mostly empty, except for a few scattered piles of debris, an overturned table, and a wheelchair. The wheelchair was small, as if made for a young child. Something sat in that chair, something tiny she couldn’t make out.

Curiosity got the best of her, and she took a tentative step forward, the old leather of her scuffed, lace-up boots creaking loudly in the stillness. Then, something moved in the dark. Frieda stopped. Could it have been a trick of the light? No—something had definitely moved. “Gretchen?” she called out. “Is that you? This isn’t funny.”

Silence.

Frieda knew as soon as she spoke that it wasn’t Gretchen. It was a boy’s voice she heard—a boy who sounded even younger than she was.

Frieda despised Gretchen. She despised her icy blue eyes. She despised her dimpled chin. She despised the gap between her teeth that showed whenever she flashed that leering grin of hers. She despised her newly bought shoes, fresh from the town cobbler, Herr Schmidt, paid for by her wealthy father, the Bürgermeister. But most of all, she despised how Gretchen always seemed to get under her skin.

It was Gretchen who had suggested that they, along with Anna and Ilse, set off a false fire alarm and sneak away from the school dormitory under cover of night. It was Gretchen who had led them to this “haunted” ruined farmhouse. And it had been Gretchen who dared Frieda to go inside alone to “prove her bravery,” while all the other girls stayed outside.

Why had she agreed to this madness?

But she did agree. Frieda had entered the house through the front door, while the other girls urged her on. The weathered, featureless oak panel hung loosely in its frame; rusted hinges squeaked in protest with every gust of wind. She hesitated at this entryway, but the other girls’ catcalls pushed her forward.

Crossing that threshold, with warped floorboards groaning under her careful steps, felt like stepping into another world—one where time stood still and the Earth held its breath. Broken lamps hung on the rotting walls, and faded wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips. The air was thick with the heavy scent of mildew. At the end of a long hallway, barely visible in the lantern’s light and covered in dust, sat a moth-eaten armchair like a silent sentinel, facing a long-dead fireplace.

But it was the rickety staircase with its many splintered steps that stood out the most. It had beckoned to her in a way she couldn’t explain, compelling her to climb. As soon as she placed one foot on the bottom step, a stray gust of wind swept through the ground floor, rustling her skirt and teasing her hair. Licking her lips, she took one step. Then another, and then another. Those stairs led her past the second floor and up to the attic; led her to that voice.

“Frieda...”

There it was again: the same whispering voice, but now sweeter and more enticing somehow. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, its tone promising… something. Frieda desperately wanted to follow that voice to its source. She took another step forward, the attic floorboards creaking under her weight.

Frieda shook her head. No! What was she doing? She should run.

The lantern! She had nearly forgotten it. She shook it and felt a wave of relief wash over her when she heard oil sloshing inside. She set it down, lowered herself onto her haunches, and fished in her sweater pocket for another match. She almost wept with joy when her trembling fingers finally found the last one. She struck it on the rough attic floor, and it sparked to life. With her hand trembling, she carefully brought the tiny, precious flame to the lantern’s wick.

“Frieda...”

Frieda spun around, her eyes searching the attic for the source of the voice. The light from her lantern was dim, casting dancing shadows along the floor and walls but leaving the corners in total blackness. It glinted off the thing sitting in the wheelchair. Whatever it was, it was made of metal.

Frieda’s breathing quickened, her raspy gasps swallowed by the darkness closing around her. She moved toward the wheelchair. Sitting there was a toy soldier made of tin, its once-vibrant uniform now nothing more than dull, flaking paint. She reached out with probing fingers but stopped just inches from the soldier’s face. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. The shadows in its hollow eyes deepened, creating the illusion that it was watching her.

The lantern was dying—there was no denying it. Why hadn’t she checked it before coming up here? She chewed on the end of one of her braids, something she always did when her anxiety grew.

She should run! Swallowing hard, she silently begged her rebellious legs to move, but they stubbornly refused. Her body was betraying her.

“Frieda...”

The voice was close—too close. It came from behind her. Something moist and breath-like licked at Frieda’s ear. Her heart pounded harder now, a series of rapid, dull thuds that threatened to rip the organ from her chest. The room grew colder, but it radiated from behind her, not the air around her. Gooseflesh crawled up her arms, and sweat formed a thin film on her back like a layer of frost. She dared not turn her head for fear of what she might see.

Something brushed her neck, like gossamer wings—so light and delicate she doubted her senses. But she couldn’t deny the cold that the touch left behind. The numbness spread from her neck down her arms and legs, settling into her toes.

“Frieda...”

She no longer trembled—not with fear, not with cold. An eerie calm washed over her. With creeping inevitability, she felt long, slender fingers caress her cheek before closing over her mouth. She didn’t even bother to try to scream.

#

“Frieda?”

Gretchen cautiously climbed the last step and entered the attic. The sky was clearing, and pale moonlight spilled through broken windows, its dust-filled beams piercing the darkness and lighting up the room. Gretchen raised her lantern high and looked around, searching for any sign of her missing... friend? Was that the right word?

Golden light spread across the floor, banishing the gloom and revealing only a few scattered items: a few piles of debris, an overturned table, and a wheelchair. The wheelchair was small, as if made for a young child. Gretchen shivered, her breath fogging in the cold air, catching on the lantern’s glass and briefly clouding the beam.

“Frieda? I know you’re up here. Come out! This isn’t funny anymore.”

Nothing. No sound except the howling wind. Gretchen drew an angry breath.

“Fine! Be that way! We’re leaving.”

Gretchen turned to go but felt something brush her auburn hair, like a draft of air. The lamp in her hand sputtered, its light flickering. She spun around, eyes darting to every corner, muscles tensing.

Then, when the room went dark, she heard her name.

“Gretchen...”

It was soft, barely more than a whisper, but unmistakable.

It was Frieda’s voice.