I rushed in and found her on the floor, clutching her hip.
“I think it’s broken,” she whispered.
The ambulance came quickly, and they rushed her into surgery. The doctors said she’d fractured her hip in two places.
While she was doing rehab, I stayed home alone for the first time in decades. The house felt too quiet without her. I’d visit her every day, but the nights were long.
That’s when I started hearing it.
Scratching. Slow and deliberate, coming from above. At first, I thought it was animals. But it sounded too rhythmic. Like something being dragged.
It was always from the attic.
One night, I took Martha’s keyring and tried every key on the attic door. None worked.
That was strange. She had keys for everything — except the attic.
So I got a screwdriver and forced the lock open.
Inside, the air was thick and musty. The room looked normal at first — boxes, old furniture. But in the corner, there was a large oak trunk. Locked.
The next day, I visited Martha.
“Martha,” I said, “what’s in that trunk in the attic?”
She went pale instantly.
“You didn’t open it, did you?” she honte whispered.
That reaction told me everything.
That night, I went back with bolt cutters and broke the trunk open.
Inside were hundreds of letters, tied with ribbons. All addressed to Martha. All signed by someone named Daniel.
I read one.
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