Fear can be conquered with small steps.

Emma enters the room. The cold air smells like it hasn’t been moved for years, like a stagnant pool of water; it festers and gives her an uncomfortable feeling that makes her cheeks strike a deathly pale. Surely, the home's caretakers would clean at least once in a while, no?

As she carefully strides further, her ears veil an echo of a child laughing. She despises the lingering eeriness as much as she loves historical things and history itself. Emma takes a deep breath and focuses on the dust dancing on the surfaces captured within daylight’s embrace.

‘You can do this,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just an old, historical house, nothing else.’

She scans the interior. The pictures show the women’s dresses, some with dirt along the ends, and the men in tights and dress-like shirts. 

Emma giggles. ‘Men in tights’

Her laugh travels around the stillness, but her giggles seem to stir something. A bronze vase falls and breaks at impact, the sticks positioned perfectly inside scattered across the floor.

Her heart gallops as she stares at where it previously stood, only to see a leaded window. Emma slows her breathing and rests her hand on her chest, rubbing soothing circles. Everything’s alright, she assures herself, albeit the words aren’t as persuasive. She runs her hand over the scraped wall, moving down to feel the shapes form and disappear underneath her touch. Upon seeing a short man in tights playing a pan whistle, her lips curve into a smile. Emma swiftly lifts her camera and snaps a picture. She grins at the result before looking up at the attic door. A weird howling noise moves above her, but she shrugs it off and retrieves the paper they received before the trip begins. 

She crosses the checkbox next to the list of challenges she must complete for the school project. Her time for exploring is over, and she should head back to the foyer, but Emma finds herself walking further. She couldn’t leave, even if she tried.

Studying the many picture frames and decor around the room, this family must’ve been religious, seeing a cross in one corner, an angel sitting on a ball, and a woman, probably a mother, holding a baby.

‘Baptism,’ she hums. Even the smallest of things has detailed particles. 

 Click

She turns hastily.  The attic door is slightly ajar, but as something catches her attention, the door gets slammed. Emma feels small as the room grows warmer.

A clacking reverberates above her, and her heart beats in the same rhythmic drumming. Within the threatening sounds, a faint cry starts.

‘Baby?’ She gazes at the picture of the woman holding a baby and daringly lifts her finger to caress the baby’s head but snaps her hand back upon contact. For it somehow left a burn mark on her fingertip.

The attic door creaks open once again, and a soft melody comes from the darkness it holds. The crying stops, and the melody drifts away. The attic door swings open, and the pit growls in annoyance. A wave of heat falls upon the room, forcing the oxygen levels to drop profusely.

A voice sings as the couch indents, ripples forming around what seems to be someone sitting there, but she sees nothing. She swallows hard, her breathing intensifying, and her body trembles like a chihuahua. Sweat drips from her eyebrow, and a few drops roll down the sides of her face. 

Emma feels numb to the bones. She closes her eyes, trying to force the dizziness away, but when she reopens them and sees only a glimpse of reality, she wants to faint. A black, see-through child sits on the couch. From what she can see, his face is half burned, and he wears a type of hat the famous Charlie Chaplin had.

‘Emma,’ he calls, her name stretched too long for her liking. ‘Come and play.’

A heaviness drags itself over her figure.

‘Emma.’ Her name is stretched out again. ‘Why won’t you come and play?’

‘Emma,’ the child calls angrily. He jumps up on the couch and sprints towards her.

She gasps, dropping to the floor, and buries her head in her hands. Her eyes are squeezed, and she fears he will be right before her when she opens them again. And she was right. A hand latches around her wrist while the other rests on her shoulder, forcing her to release her head and sit back.

Out of fear, she kicks and flails her arms around, trying to grasp at anything that would bring her back to reality, but all that was given to her was emptiness and the pestering presence of this child. Instead of feeling a hand, she feels arms, and instead of hearing his piercing, squeaky cry, she hears a soft and caring whisper, ‘It’s okay.’ 

She grabs at anything attached to the safety pillaring around her and acknowledges the leather between her fingertips. Emma opens her eyes to see that the attic door is closed, the bronze vase is back where it originally was, and cold air tickles the tiny hairs across her face.

‘Emma?’ her teacher whispers, fearful that if she speaks any louder, it will destroy the peace that now rests there. ‘Are you with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘You had a panic attack. Are you alright?’ 

Emma nods. She didn’t realize she tipped on the dainty thread grappling around her nervous system.

‘Let’s get you back to the bus.’ She rises, pulling Emma with her. ‘Your classmates are almost done. Then we can head back to school, alright?’

Emma nods and wipes her hands along the sides of her trousers. She follows her teacher and observes the attic door again. It’s sealed tightly—practically glued together, and each object that spurred her further into distress isn’t moved an inch. She shakes her head and pushes herself to find reassurance that despite finding herself against the wall amidst a panic attack, she remained steady much longer than she thought.

Next year, she’ll approach it with a sense of calm, knowing that she won’t get snatched by paranormal entities or simply die because of how old the house was. No, she’ll do just fine.