28

As I stepped over the threshold my feet felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. It was as if I was wading through an ocean of my own fear.

“Jason.”

Sally’s voice was very faint, getting smaller. I had to hurry. The stairs felt funny under my feet—sort of slippery and spongy. It was hard to get traction.

There was nothing to hold on to but the walls on either side. And the stairs were so steep and narrow.

My foot slipped. I started to go down and caught myself on the stairs with my hands.

I jerked back as if I’d been burned. The surface of the steps felt soft and cold and clammy—like dead human skin!

The stairway was alive.

I forced myself up the last few stairs, gasping for breath. The small door at the top was open. The door was so low I had to stoop to get inside.

I was in the attic. But not a part I’d ever seen before.

Something told me this room didn’t really exist. Not anymore. It was as the attic had been years before. It was as if I’d stepped back in time.

It was the room of a small child. There was a painted wooden rocking horse, a small iron bed, and a rocking chair. The room smelled stale, as if the air was a hundred years old. A cold creepiness tickled up my spine.

Then the rocking chair began to rock. It was facing the other way and I couldn’t see who—or what—was in the chair.

It rocked to and fro, to and fro.

“Come to me,” said a faint unrecognizable voice from the shadowy depths of the chair. “Come to me, Jason. Come to me or die!”