"The Attic Light"

No one in the village went near the old Wrenfield House. The stories said it was cursed, that strange cries echoed from it after midnight. But to Ellie, an aspiring photographer with a hunger for the macabre, the legends were too tempting.

One cold October night, she crept through the fog, camera in hand, and stood before the decaying house. Her breath caught in her throat. The stories were true—there was a light in the attic, faint and flickering, though no electricity had run through the house in decades.

She stepped inside, floorboards groaning under her weight. Dust choked the air. Shadows danced where there should’ve been none. As she climbed the narrow staircase, her flashlight died. The attic door creaked open on its own.

Inside, nothing. Just an old chair, a broken mirror—and a photograph.

It was a picture of her. Taken from outside the house. That night.

Behind her, the floor creaked.

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