The Attic Hatch
My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling so violently I almost dropped the phone onto the kitchen counter. The timestamp glared at me: 3:14 AM. I zoomed in on the dark, grainy image. There I was, tangled in the duvet, my mouth slightly open, completely oblivious to the world.
But what made my stomach drop into a bottomless pit wasn’t just the photo. It was the angle.
The picture was taken from directly above the bed.
I practically fell backward out of my chair, my eyes darting frantically around the sunlit kitchen. I sprinted to the front door—the deadbolt was still thrown. The back door was secured. Every first-floor window was locked tight from the inside. My golden retriever, Buster, was snoring peacefully on his rug by the fridge. He hadn’t barked once the entire night.
“How?” I whispered, my voice cracking in the silence of the empty house.
I grabbed the heaviest thing I could find—a cast-iron skillet from the stove—and crept down the hallway toward my bedroom. The room looked perfectly normal. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Slowly, dreading what I might see, I stepped to the foot of the bed and looked straight up at the ceiling.
Directly above my pillows, the small, square wooden panel for the attic access was pushed open just a fraction of an inch. Smudges of dark dirt stained the pristine white paint around the edges of the frame.
A cold sweat broke out across my forehead as the caption on my phone flashed in my mind: Tonight, I won’t just take a picture.
I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t even grab my coat. I just yelled for Buster, snagged my car keys from the hook, and bolted out the front door into the crisp morning air. I threw the dog into the passenger seat of my truck, slammed the door, and jammed the key into the ignition.
As the engine roared to life, I pulled out my phone, my fingers shaking as I tried to dial the police.
The screen woke up, but it wasn’t on the dial pad. The camera app was open again.
A new photo had just been taken, timestamped 8:42 AM. It was a picture of me, taken through the windshield of my truck, wide-eyed and terrified.
And the new typed caption read: Leaving so soon? You didn’t even check the backseat.
Behind me, Buster let out a low, terrified whimper.
