I bent down to pick them up, and just then a small wooden drawer that had been stuck for years popped open with a dry click.
I hesitated for a moment and looked inside.
There, under a pile of yellow drafts, was a small hardcover notebook—dark brown leather with worn corners.
It looked old.
It didn’t look like it belonged to Steven.
He always liked modern, neat things—laptops, pens, and pristine white paper. That notebook, with its worn leather cover and a loose string, seemed like it was from another era.
With a mix of curiosity and fear, I picked it up, my hands shaking a little as I opened the first page.
Inside were pages full of handwriting.
The handwriting was soft, elegant, clearly a woman’s.
I flipped through the pages, skimming.
They were story outlines, character descriptions, plot ideas.
There was a fragment that spoke of a small village on a mountainside where a woman lived alone, waiting for someone who would never return. Another mentioned a buried secret with details that gave me chills.
These ideas, though different, had a similar feel to the plots of Steven’s most famous novels—the ones that made him famous.
My heart was pounding, my throat dry.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
I know Steven too well.
He hates writing by hand. He always said it was slow and messy, a waste of time.
Everything he did—from novel drafts, work notes, to shopping lists—he did on the computer.
I remember one time when I asked him to write down a restaurant’s address. Instead of grabbing the pen right next to him, he turned on the computer to type it.
So whose notebook was this?
A secret collaborator? A fan who had given it to him?
I sat in the chair, the notebook feeling heavy in my hands.
A part of me wanted to show it to Steven as soon as he got back. I wanted to hear his explanation, but I hesitated.
I know him too well.
Steven always knows how to make everything sound logical.
He would smile. He’d say it was a gift from a reader or an old idea from when he tried writing by hand, and I—like so many times before—would nod and let it all sink into silence.
But not this time.
I wouldn’t let it go.
Carefully, I put the notebook back in the drawer and pushed it all the way to the back, as if I was afraid it would disappear if I didn’t keep it hidden.
That night, I was sleepless again.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and listened to the ticking of the clock in the darkness.
Around 2:00 in the morning, a faint creak came from the hallway.
It was a small noise, but in the silence of the night, it was perfectly clear—like a disturbing whisper.
I sat up straight, my heart racing.
I don’t know why.
I immediately thought of the small door that led to the attic, the one Steven and I almost never opened.
I got up carefully without turning on the light, afraid the brightness would shatter the truth I was about to discover.
The faint moonlight came through the window, just enough for me to see a crack.
The attic door was ajar.
A cold, damp draft drifted down, bringing the smell of old paper and confinement.
I stood frozen, my feet glued to the floor.
Fear mixed with curiosity paralyzed me.
I went back to the room and gently shook my husband’s shoulder.
“Steven, wake up. The attic door is open.”
Steven groaned half-asleep and got up annoyed. He put on his slippers and walked ahead of me down the hall without a word.
But when we got there, the door was closed with the latch in place, as if no one had touched it.
I stared at it, looking for any sign—a scratch, a crack—nothing.
Steven turned to me with an expression of exhaustion and disappointment.
“Emily,” he said in a grave, tired voice, “you’re too tense lately. You’re not sleeping well. That’s why you’re seeing things that aren’t there. Go back to bed. Go on.”
He walked me back.
I lay down but kept my eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
For the first time, I began to doubt myself.
What if I really had imagined it all?
In the days after I found the mysterious notebook, I tried to keep everything normal, though inside I was consumed by unease.
I started watching Steven’s every move, every look, every word.
He had recently picked up a new habit that only increased my suspicions.
Around 10 at night, when I was already in bed with a book in my hands, ready to sleep, he would say he had to keep working in the library.
“I need to concentrate a bit, Emily,” he’d say in a soft but firm voice. “The manuscript is at a difficult part. You go to sleep first.”
I would nod, smiling.
But every time the library door closed, I felt an invisible distance growing between us.
One night, I woke up thirsty.
The clock on the table marked almost 1:00 in the morning, and the second hand seemed to be counting something in the darkness.
I reached out to touch Steven, but the bed was empty.
The sheets were cold, as if he had never even been in bed.
My heart skipped a beat.
A wave of anxiety washed over me.
Where was he?
I put on a thin robe and went out into the hallway, thinking maybe he had fallen asleep at his desk, like other times when the publishers pressure exhausted him.
I walked down the dark hallway.
The dim light from the living room cast strange shadows on the walls.
I pushed open the library door, but the room was empty—the computer screen dark, the chair perfectly placed under the desk as if no one had been there.
I called out softly, “Steven.”
My voice echoed in the silence, but there was no answer.
I went down to the kitchen, thinking maybe he had gone for water, but it was also empty. Only the moonlight came through the window, making the shadows of the dishes on the shelves look like ghosts.
I started walking through the house, calling his name, my voice growing more shaky.
My heart was pounding as if sensing I was about to face something.
As I passed the stairs that led to the second floor, I heard a very soft footstep—almost imperceptible if you weren’t paying close attention.
I looked up, and in the dim hallway light, I saw a silhouette slowly coming down.
It was Steven.
He was barefoot, walking carefully, as if he didn’t want to make the slightest noise.
In his hand, he was carrying a porcelain plate, the kind we used for weekend dinners.
When he saw me standing there, his eyes widened in surprise.
A look of shock crossed his face.
The plate slipped from his hands, hit the stone floor with a sharp clang, and shattered into pieces.
That sound tore through the silence of the night, startling me, and I took a step back.
I looked at the fragments, confused.
The plate was empty, clean—no crumbs or grease—as if it had been carefully washed.
That only added to my confusion.
I looked up at Steven and asked with a trembling voice, “What were you doing up there at this hour? I thought you were in your office.”
He bent down and started picking up the pieces with slow movements, as if trying to buy time to think of an answer.
He avoided my gaze and said in a forced tone, “I… I got stuck on the end of the book. The editor won’t stop pressuring me. You know, I needed a quiet place, so I went up for a while. I got hungry and brought up some food.”
I stood there watching him pick up the pieces, unable to fully believe him.
I knelt down to help him.
When our fingers brushed against the cold floor, I felt a cold chill of distance. The hand that once comforted me now chilled my skin.
I knew he was under a lot of pressure from the publisher. The constant calls from Mr. Ramos, his editor, had him on edge.
Maybe, I told myself, he just needed space to write.
Maybe I was overreacting.
The next morning, the house felt heavy, as if an invisible cloud was floating over us.
I woke up tired, my head full of unanswered questions.
Steven, avoiding my eyes, got up earlier than usual. I heard him making coffee in silence, the soft clinking of porcelain, but without the usual good morning.
He locked himself in the library, closing the door firmly, and I knew he didn’t want to be disturbed.
I stood in the hallway looking at that wooden door with a heavy heart.
Around noon, Steven came out dressed in a gray suit and carrying a small suitcase.
He stopped in the living room where I was sitting with a cup of cold tea.
“I need to get away for a few days,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice. “Maybe I’ll go up north for a bit. I need a change of scenery to get inspired.”
I looked up, surprised.
Steven never left without notice. He always planned everything in advance, consulted me on the itinerary.
Why so suddenly?
I asked, trying to sound calm, though my heart was pounding.
He didn’t look at me directly.
His eyes were fixed on the window where the sunlight filtered through the dust-covered glass.
“The idea just came to me,” he replied in a monotone voice. “Be careful while I’m gone.”
But just before he walked out the door, he turned suddenly and put his hands on my shoulders.
His grip was stronger than usual, which made me jump.
“Emily,” he said in a low, serious tone. “While I’m gone, don’t have anyone over. Do you hear me? Especially not anyone from the newspaper. If Mr. Ramos, my editor, comes looking for me, tell him I went on a trip, and you don’t know when I’ll be back.”
I nodded, but a sense of unease grew inside me.
His words didn’t sound like a simple warning.
They sounded like an order.
An alert.
Steven had been gone for about two hours when the doorbell rang.
I looked through the peephole and saw Mr. Ramos—Steven’s editor—with a young assistant.
They both looked impatient.
I hesitated for a moment, my hand on the doorknob, feeling my chest tighten.
Steven’s words echoed in my head, but I couldn’t just stand there without opening the door.
I took a deep breath, opened the door, and forced a smile.
Mr. Ramos didn’t wait for an invitation.
He walked straight into the living room with an annoyed expression.
“Mrs. Emily,” he said harshly. “I know Steven is home. Stop covering for him. We need the manuscript urgently. The deadline was 2 weeks ago.”
Keeping calm, I repeated exactly what Steven had told me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ramos, but Steven left this morning to find inspiration. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
Mr. Ramos let out an ironic laugh that chilled my blood.
He pointed toward the Vargas’ house, our neighbors across the street.
“Don’t lie to me anymore,” he said sharply. “Mr. Vargas told me he sees the attic light on late every single night. If Steven is working that much, he should have the manuscript ready by now, not hiding like this.”
The young assistant, a girl with a kind look, intervened.
“Ma’am, we just want to help. If Mr. Steven is having writer’s block, he should talk to us. We can support him.”
Her tone was soft, but I couldn’t concentrate anymore.
Ramos’s words hit me hard.
The attic light.
I never noticed that.
We hardly ever went up there.
It was full of old boxes and cobwebs.
Why would a light be on?
And why would Mr. Vargas say he saw it every night?
My heart stopped.
I tried to keep my composure as I walked them to the door, promising to let Steven know as soon as I heard from him.
But as I closed the door, I leaned against it, shaking.
My mind was spinning.
The scattered fragments were starting to fit together.
The noises in the attic.
The missing sausage.
The puddle in the bathroom.
The mysterious notebook.
The empty plate.
And now the light.
Everything pointed to the same place—the attic—that forgotten space I hadn’t been up to in years.
I didn’t feel scared anymore.
Instead, a cold determination began to grow inside me like a silent flame, pushing me to find the truth.
I went to the backyard shed where a weak light from the street lamp snuck through the crack in the door. The smell of dust and old oil made me cough.
I looked for the old folding ladder we hadn’t used since we moved in.
It was heavy, covered in dust and cobwebs, as if time had left it behind.