The Glow in the Attic

Emma Harrison never really believed in the universe sending signs. She left that to Aunt Sue and her tarot collections. No, Emma had her feet firm on the ground, even when life casually knocked her off them. With her tenure at the bookstore suddenly over—some corporate jargon about restructuring—she found herself back at her uncle’s old house, the one pleasantry her family provided when they deemed her "independent enough." "It has character," her mom assured her, patting Emma's arm, clearly implying 'don’t mention the dust-coated floors.' The old place felt like it hadn’t caught a whiff of joy since her uncle passed. But desperation does fun things to people. Emma decided the sorrowful heap of bricks could do with some spirit, or it was back to the city and joining Aunt Sue at those bizarre tarot parties. On her third night, just as she settled with a book, the house stirred. Well, okay, not actually stirred. There was a sudden burst of light from the attic. It was so unexpected, the mug of lukewarm cocoa she had ready for bed skittered across the floor soundlessly. Almost. Thinking about late nights and faulty wiring, Emma tried to push it out of her mind. She even convinced herself the echo of footfalls she heard right after, was merely an overactive imagination born from solitude. By night five, she was sitting quietly, waiting. When the clock hit one-less-than-midnight, the house held its breath, then let it go along with another suspicious beam of light from the forbidden upper quarters. They say curiosity killed the cat, but, oh, what else was Emma to do? Maybe Aunt Sue was onto something with those tarot cards. The attic creaked as if grumbling her approach. A seemingly bottomless pit of shadow greeted her, broken only by strategic slivers of that strange glow. She expected boxes of forgotten family memories; instead, she found instruments – cameras, projectors, a dusty film reel. Things that made little sense out of context but seemed like they were once integral. Emma squinted at labels jotted at odd angles on random finds; sketches with familiar handwriting way too precise to be anyone but her uncle’s. "Never meant for the living," it read. A noise distracted her—a significant crash amidst the melee of trinkets. Heart pounding in reckless drumbeats, she found herself staring at an old photo. Her uncle. Probably thirty years younger. It started making sense now. Her uncle was an aspiring filmmaker, something he left behind to, well, live a life Aunt Sue would term as aligned with his energy vibes. What Emma hadn’t seen among her uncle’s accolades was the degree of deep secrets that had intertwined themselves into him. It hit her in pieces, like life often did. In the film instructing her uncle’s arrangement, he'd reluctantly struck a deal. In exchange for brilliance, his work was forever meant to be shielded from masses – a fame off the books but perfectly assignable to brilliance, if only one knew. It made so much of this eerie madness strangely simple: the lights, the whispers, this unshakeable oppressive sense of more than mere abandonment. Her uncle’s creative soul bound in holographic frames of passion. Emma sat there, surrounded not by shards of fear but pieces wielded by creation and compromise. She wasn’t just uncovering secrets tonight; she was claiming her place amidst them. Perhaps paths and people were two different tales. Morning washed over, every golden ray highlighting possibility within shadows. Emma knew she wasn’t going anywhere. She swayed even, as embers flew and movements in the house wrapped themselves in new hopes. Creativity wasn’t a sad rehearsal; it was where lives began again. And that attic light? That'd find a different dwelling spot altogether.