Soft foot falls in the attic, like children running, struggling, and heavy objects being moved across the floor. That floor, that is, the ceiling, above my bed. I've lived here for twenty one years and no one has ever been there. I've seen the door to the attic, in my grandparents room, sealed, untouched. I have no reason to think anyone's up there. Only mold, I'm told. And yet, I hear them, and I think they want me to. Sometimes I hear their plotting, they don't try to whisper. Soon they'll come down, wait in my bed and sneak into my head, and I don't know if I want to stop them.