* **My Dead Uncle’s Voice Echoed From the Attic Baby Monitor**

MY UNCLE’S VOICE CAME FROM THE OLD BABY MONITOR IN THE ATTIC

A faint crackle came from the ancient plastic device, and I froze, half-way up the dusty ladder. The attic air was thick with dust, a stale, musty smell clinging to everything. Sunlight struggled through a small, grimy window, illuminating dancing motes. The baby monitor, an ancient yellowed plastic box, pulsed with a weak, sickly green light on the top shelf.

Just as I reached for it, a dry, raspy whisper tore through the static. “They won’t believe you.” My heart lurched, slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. I clutched the ladder, my knuckles white, staring at the speaker.

My hands started to tremble so violently I almost dropped the monitor entirely. A cold sweat pricked the back of my neck, making the hair stand on end. Uncle Ben died three years ago. His voice. But clearer, more alive, than I’d ever heard it. Who was ‘they’?

A sudden, sharp *thump* echoed from the dark corner of the attic, right behind me. The sound was too deliberate, too heavy, to be just an old house settling. It felt like something was dropped where the floorboards looked newest.

The floorboards there looked disturbed, and a sliver of dark fabric was caught beneath one.

👇 Full story continued in the comments…My breath hitched. Frozen, I slowly pivoted on the ladder, my eyes straining in the gloom. The dark corner, usually just a collection of forgotten furniture under a dusty sheet, now held a palpable sense of menace. Another thump, this one closer, and a soft scraping sound. The baby monitor crackled again, the static intensifying. “Don’t look back,” the whisper rasped, impossibly louder this time. “They’re watching.”

My legs moved before my brain could process the command. I scrambled down the ladder, ignoring the protest of my muscles and the scrape of my jeans on the rungs. The attic seemed to shrink, the dust suffocating. At the base of the ladder, I whirled, desperate to escape.

As I turned to leave, I saw it: a dark, shifting mass in the corner. It wasn’t solid, more like shadows coalescing into a vaguely human shape. Then, a third thump, much louder than the others. The dark form extended a shadowy arm, reaching towards the disturbed floorboards. I screamed and stumbled backwards, my foot catching on a discarded trunk. I fell, hitting my head hard on the wooden floor.

The world swam. Blinking through the spots dancing in front of my eyes, I saw the attic, the shadows growing bigger, the sounds closer. The baby monitor fell from the shelf. Its sickly green light went out.

Suddenly, the static ceased. A voice, my own voice, clear and cold, filled the air. “They won’t believe you.”

My vision cleared enough to see the floorboards. The dark sliver of fabric was now fully exposed: it was a piece of my own favourite dark blue hoodie, the one I’d worn the day I came up here to hide from my uncle. But now, the floorboard cracked more, and I could see a hand, a skeletal hand, slowly emerging. The hand reached up and clasped the wood above the floorboards.

The baby monitor crackled again, and a new voice filled the attic: “She’s right there. Get her.”
Everything went black.

A few days later, the police ruled the death as an accident. The fall, they said, had been fatal. They found a few pieces of my favorite hoodie caught between the floorboards in the attic, a piece of a forgotten child’s game, they said, a weird game. The baby monitor sat on the top shelf. No one could figure out how it had switched on. They thought it was faulty, and the batteries were already dead. The family, sad, but relieved that I was at peace, was also worried. They said that I was acting strange a few weeks before my death, that I was talking about seeing things and hearing voices. Things that weren’t there.