The Forgotten Boy

(I wrote this for my mother. She’s hosting a Halloween party in her attic, and asked if I’d write a scary story for it. I thought you all might enjoy it as well.)

It matters not, whether you close or bar this attic door.

The Forgotten Child follows, forever more.

Dear Visitor,

I regret to inform you that it is far too late for you to escape your fate. If you would have simply heard of the Dean house, but had chosen wisely not to visit, you would’ve been perfectly safe. If you would’ve driven by first, felt a chill run down your spine as you looked up at the fogged attic windows and decided to promptly step on the gas, you could have survived. I believe it’s safe to assume that even if you had decided to enter Dean house, walk up that shiny staircase and had placed your hand on the cold bronze doorknob of the attic door, but at the last moment had come to your wits and ran away, you still might’ve went on to live a happy life, forgetting the ordeal all together.

If you’ve found this letter, though, I regret to inform you that you are not one of the lucky souls I mentioned previously. No, you have entered the attic, have scaled those old, creaking stairs. Perhaps at this very moment you’re still standing up there, reading or listening to someone read my words in the dimly lit room. Your heart might be beating faster, like a war drum warning of impending doom. You might have already noticed the room closing in around you, as if it were exhaling and inhaling, taking deep breaths that you yourself are finding hard to do.

Don’t bother trying to run. It’s too late anyway, as it was for me. Try to relax as I tell you the true story of a poor little boy who had once called this attic home.

And again, I can’t stress enough that you take a moment to try and calm down; he’s drawn to those that show fear.

In the mid-1920’s, Frederick and Mary Smith moved into the Dean House. They were in love, as much as any newlyweds could be. Soon after moving to Dean House, they had their first and only child. The baby boy was severely deformed. His eyes were skewed and unfocused, limbs uneven. His face seemed to cave in on itself like a rotting pumpkin.

As the child grew older, its deformities never improved; in fact they got worse. Mary took care of the boy, even pretended to love him, but deep down she despised the poor child, blaming him for her difficult labor. Now unable to conceive, she’d never be able to do what she truly wanted; replace him.

His father, Frederick, made no attempts to hide his disgust. He’d beat the boy regularly, locked him in the attic, the same one you find yourself now.

Take a look around you. Study your surroundings. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now the many corners of the room, all the little nooks and crannies shrouded in darkness. These little spots were where the boy would hide.

On nights when Frederick drank too much, which was almost every night, he’d stomp up the attic stairs, a flickering candle in one hand and his belt in the other. The boy clung to the shadows, moving like a mouse from one place to the other. His father would always find him, eventually, and beat him harder for having attempted to hide.

This was the boy’s early childhood. His mother’s stale and piercing love, like a drying rose, and his father’s belt. I’m sure the boy had a difficult time deciding which he liked least.

The Roaring 1920’s fizzled out, and the Great Depression of the 1930’s replaced it. The entire country was depleted, and the Smith household was no different. In 1933, Frederick was let go from his job at the local bank. As the Smith’s situation became more dire, Mary’s daily visits to the boy, which is when she’d bring him food, became few and far between. Even his father’s nightly visits began to cease.

One night, the boy heard the rusty clank of a skeleton key locking the attic door.

His parents never opened the door again. Unable to afford to feed him, they allowed the poor child to starve to death.

Frederick and Mary’s story is relatively unknown after this. Frederick obtained a position in finance in Chicago, and Mary was more than happy to leave the Dean House. The last entry in what survived of her diary, dated March 5th, 1938, stated, “I’ve heard him in the walls. At night he whispers to me. ‘I’m hungry,’ he says. I just want to forget. Thank the Lord that Frederick is taking me from this dreadful house. I just want to forget.”

The rest of the diary has been burned, charred beyond recognition.

The parents may have forgotten about the boy, but unfortunately, dear

Visitor, the boy will be impossible for you to forget.

I’m writing this letter on October 14th, 1987. I plan to visit the attic, one last time, to leave a copy for you, to inform you what I’ve discovered. Unfortunately, I haven’t discovered a way to break the curse.

I originally entered the attic precisely twenty years ago, on October 14th, 1967, with a few teenage friends. I was the only one to have seen the Forgotten Boy that night, tucked away in one of those shadowed, dusty corners, with that dreaded lopsided grin of his. My friends weren’t nearly as scared as I had been, so perhaps that’s why he chose to reveal himself to me, but they’d all see him eventually.

My friends have all passed away. The doctors ruled in all three of their cases that the cause of death was natural…but, if you ask me, healthy 30 year old men don’t die of heart attacks. It was the fear. The boy came for them, and now he’s not as lonely.

Again, I can’t save you. But I can tell you what to expect.

At first, you might spot him in your peripheral, a flash of gray in some dark corner of your house, or in your closet, or under you bed. A trick of the mind, you might say; a mirage. But then you’ll hear him, scuttling around your room at night in the dark, just out of eye sight. I’m just hearing things, you’ll say to yourself. This is good. Keep the fear at bay. I’ve said the same a thousand times.

If you’re particularly strong-willed, perhaps after experiencing all of this you still don’t believe in the curse, but what happens next cannot be denied. Some night, maybe tomorrow, maybe years from now, you’ll hear the Forgotten Boy’s bony footsteps, and then he will come into the faint moonlight pouring through your bedroom window. His eyes will be glassy and fogged, his body ravaged by starvation, his ribs and joints protruding through his thin, dead skin. He’ll be sporting that wicked grin on that misshapen gourd of a head, just like he always does.

You’ll close your eyes, as you should. Tell yourself it isn’t real, that he isn’t real. This is important, because as your fear increases, the boy will walk closer, one step at a time. If you allow your fear to become unbearable, he’ll walk up to your bed, and you’ll feel his hot, moldy breath on your neck before he whispers in his little, raspy voice, “I’m hungry.”

If you open your eyes, the Forgotten Child will have you.

I have run long enough. Tonight, when he comes, I will open my eyes, will embrace my fate. I wish you luck in breaking this curse.

Best of Luck,

Signed, an Unfortunate Soul, same as you.

P.S. If you don’t find the words of a stranger convincing enough, look around the attic. You’ll find black hand and footprints, perhaps left behind by the Forgotten Boy.