She moved in three weeks ago. She sleeps fine. There are no strange noises, but there is one door she never considered. In the ceiling. It haunts her now. When she walks through the short hall, to bedroom or bathroom or living room, she doesn’t always glance up but she feels the weight of it. The not knowing. The uncertainty. The possibilities. There might be an antique she could pawn, some rare Russian thimble or a Civil War era rifle or an ivory-handled mirror. There might be evidence of a crime, the secret books with details of shady deals, a murder weapon, a body in a plastic bag stuffed into a trunk. She has friends over one night for beer and wine and food and music. Sometime near midnight, she tells them about the unopened attic like it’s a ghost story. What if simply opening the attic door unleashes some demonic entity bent on possession and sex and death? What if she finds that tattered, dusty remnants of a jilted bride’s gown and the bride didn’t want to be disturbed?
