Story 1032: Eyes in the Attic

The house on Crooked Elm Street was a tilted thing — all warped shingles, splintered steps, and windows that looked more like eyes than glass.

No one had lived there in decades.

Until Reed Halston inherited it.

A small-town professor with no next of kin, Reed arrived with dusty boxes, antique books, and a love for solitude. He thought the creaks in the floorboards were charming. That the flickering lights were just old wiring.

But the attic?

The attic was always locked.

The key came on his third night.

It wasn't in his pocket before, but there it was — cold brass, looped with red string, resting on his nightstand.

He opened the attic door the next morning, flashlight in hand.

It was empty.

Except for a single chair in the center.

And the mirrors.

Seven of them.

Each mirror was tilted at odd angles, pointed to different parts of the room. One faced the door. One faced the chair. One faced the others.