Hunted - The attic door creaked open.

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he attic door creaked open. Something rustled in the darkness. I stared, but could see nothing beyond the vague shapes of old suitcases and trunks piled high. It smelt damp. I struggled up into the attic and wedged the door open. Light poured into the darkness. The darkness in the head of the house. I balanced carefully upon the floor beams. I knew that if I stepped onto the plaster I could fall straight through into the room below. A cobweb brushed my face and I felt the sudden tickle of a spider crawl across my cheek. As I made my way forwards, it grew colder and darker. I was blocking the light from the attic door. There were piles of old newspapers, brown paper bags tied with string, cardboard boxes and ancient, moth-eaten rugs that smelt of mothballs. Thick dust powdered every surface. I kept thinking that I would slip and put my foot through the floor. I stopped at a pile of old camping equipment. It was a jumble of guy ropes, torn canvas poles, wooden pegs, metal skewers and mallet. It was there that I saw the hand. It was quite still - - - and white. At first I thought that it was marble. But then it moved.

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Maybe it was a trick of the light? I am frightened……it’s understandable.

“No, don’t try and make up excuses, Jane” the voice in my head contradicted. I should have known that there is no point in trying to convince myself that it didn’t happen. It was real. I took some agonisingly slow shuffles backwards, but not for one second taking my eyes off the inhuman hand.

Groping through the darkness, my hand stumbled upon a rod. As my grip tightened on the cold rusty metal, my mind raced. The raging furious wind outside forced the branches to scrape the window ...

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