A man renovating his inherited farmhouse broke through a hidden wall to discover a secret attic piled high with child-sized coffins.

But when he pried one open, the shocking sight of what was preserved inside made him drop to his knees and burst into tears.

The iron key to the farmhouse felt heavier in Rob Ellison’s pocket than a key had any right to feel.

Sitting cold and jagged against his thigh like a physical manifestation of the bad news that had plagued his life for the last 3 years.

He stood before the structure, a lumen, skeletal thing of gray wood and shattered glass that seemed to have grown out of the dying Ohio soil rather than having been built upon it.

The mailbox at the end of the gravel driveway leaned drunkenly to the left.

The name Ellison, barely visible beneath decades of rust and lyken, a testament to the uncle Rob had never met and the family legacy he had tried so hard to outrun.

Rob rubbed his eyes, feeling the grit of the 4-hour drive from Cleveland under his eyelids.

He was 42 years old, but in the fading light of a November afternoon, he felt 80.

The silence here was different from the silence of his empty apartment back in the city.

That silence was lonely, a vacuum left where his wife Sarah used to be.

The silence of Blackwood Farm was heavy, watchful, and filled with the unspoken history of a recluse who had died alone.

He checked his phone.

No service.

Just a picture of his daughter Emily on the lock screen, smiling at her high school graduation 3 months ago.

That smile was the only reason he was here.

It was the only reason he hadn’t driven his truck off the bridge on the way down.

The medical debts from Sarah’s three-year battle with cancer had decimated them.

The life insurance had been swallowed by aggressive creditors within weeks of the funeral.

Now with Emily’s tuition deadline looming, and the foreclosure notice on their apartment taped to the refrigerator, this rotting pile of timber was his last card to play.

Fix it, flip it, get out, Rob whispered to the wind, a mantra to keep the panic at bay.

30 days.

He stepped onto the porch, the wood groaning in protest under his work boots.

He was a contractor by trade, a man who understood how things were put together and how they fell apart.

Even before he unlocked the front door, his professional eye was cataloging the disasters.

The porch listed 5° to the south, suggesting foundation settling.

The gutters were choked with miniature trees.

The roof shingles were curled like dead leaves.

This wasn’t a house.

It was a corpse.

He jammed the key into the lock.

It resisted, gritty with oxidation, before turning with a sharp clack.

The door swung inward, exhaling a breath of stale air that smelled of wet wool, mouse droppings, and ancient paper.

Rob stepped into the foyer, clicking on his heavyduty flashlight.

The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating a hallway that seemed to stretch back into the early 20th century.

Dust sheets draped over furniture, looked like ghosts frozen in mid-flight.

The wallpaper, once a floral pattern, hung in peeling strips that revealed the lath and plaster beneath.

Hello, he called out, though he knew Uncle Silas was dead and buried.

The house answered with a settling creek from the floorboards above, a sound that resembled a footstep so closely that Rob instinctively swung his light toward the stairs.

Nothing but shadows.

He wasn’t superstitious.

He dealt in lumber, concrete, and loadbearing walls.

But as he moved deeper into the house, dragging his duffel bag of tools and a sleeping bag, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into the belly of a beast that hadn’t been fed in a long, long time.

He set up his base camp in what used to be the living room, sweeping aside a layer of dead flies and dust that was thick enough to write his name in.

The first night was a sleepless endurance test.

The wind whistled through gaps in the siding that Rob hadn’t located yet, creating a low, mournful tone that vibrated the loose window panes.

He lay in his sleeping bag, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, calculating the cost of drywall, copper piping, and lumber.

The math didn’t look good.

If the foundation was cracked, the property was worthless.

If the well was dry, it was worthless.

He needed a miracle, and looking around at the shadowed corners of Silus Ellison’s life, all he saw was ruin.

The next morning brought a cold gray light and a visitor.

Rob was in the kitchen wrestling with a rusted shut off valve under the sink when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

He wiped his grease stained hands on his jeans and walked out to the porch.

A sleek black SUV, utterly out of place on the pothole dirt road, sat oddlin next to his battered pickup truck.

A man stepped out wearing a suit that cost more than Rob’s truck and boots that had clearly never stepped in mud before.

He was sleek, balden, and wore a smile that didn’t reach his shark-like eyes.

You must be the nephew, the man said, extending a hand that felt dry and manicured.

Vance Caldwell.

Caldwell development.

Rob shook the hand briefly.

Rob Ellison.

Condolences on your uncle.

Vance said, his eyes already drifting over Rob’s shoulder to scan the house.

Silas was a character kept to himself.

We tried to reach out to him for years, you know, to help him.

Help him? Rob asked, leaning against the porch railing.

With the burden, Vance gestured to the overgrown fields in the sagen barn.

This is a lot of land for one man, especially an old man.

It’s a lot of liability.

The soil toxicity reports alone.

The soil is fine, Rob lied, though he had no idea.

Vance chuckled, a sound devoid of humor.

Mr.Ellison, let’s be frank.

I own the parcels to the north and east.

I’m looking to expand a lot industrial park.

This farmhouse, it’s a tear down.

The county has been looking for a reason to condemn it for a decade.

Silas only kept them at bay with a shotgun and threats.

“I’m renovating it,” Rob said, his voice hardening.

“Renovating?” Vance raised an eyebrow.

“You’re looking at 100 grand in materials alone.

Structural remediation, asbestos abatement, lead paint.

I can take it off your hands today.

Cash offer for the land value minus the demolition costs.

” He named a figure.

It was low.

Insultingly low.

It wouldn’t even cover the remaining hospital bills, let alone Emily’s tuition or a new apartment.

I’ll pass, Rob said.

Vance’s smile evaporated.

Be reasonable.

You have 30 days before the tax lean kicks in.

Oh, yes.

I know about the taxes Silas didn’t pay.

And I know about the building inspector’s interest.

I can make those problems go away or I can make them accelerate.

Don’t be a hero, Rob.

Take the money and run.

Get off my property, Rob said quietly.

Vance stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged.

I’ll be back.

The house isn’t going to hold itself up forever.

As the SUV reversed and sped away, Rob felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach.

He wasn’t just fighting the house.

He was fighting a timeline and a predator.

He went back inside, grabbed his crowbar, and attacked the kitchen sink with a ferocity born of desperation.

He would fix this place.

He had to.

For the next week, Rob worked 18-hour days.

He was a machine fueled by instant coffee and panic.

He jacked up the sagging porch and reinforced the peers with concrete blocks.

He stripped the rotting drywall from the foyer, choking on clouds of plaster dust.

He reshingled the worst patches of the roof, battling vertigo and the biting November wind.

The house fought him every step of the way.

Screws snapped off in hardwood that had turned to iron with age.

Pipes burst the moment he pressurized the system.

But as he stripped away the layers of neglect, he began to see the bones of the house, and they were strange.

He found doorways that had been plastered over.

He found a staircase behind a bookshelf that led nowhere, terminating in a solid ceiling.

The architecture didn’t make sense.

It was as if the house had been modified from the inside out, customized to hide things rather than accommodate people.

It was late on a Tuesday night during a thunderstorm that battered the farmhouse with sheets of freezing rain that Rob found the anomaly on the second floor.

He was in the upper hallway measuring the distance between the master bedroom door and the linen closet for new baseboards.

He checked the tape measure, frowned, and checked it again.

12 ft, he muttered.

He walked into the master bedroom and measured the wall shared with the hallway.

8 ft.

He went into the linen closet and measured the depth.

2t.

There was a twoft discrepancy.

A void space between the walls.

Rob tapped the wall in the hallway.

It sounded solid, dull.

He moved down a few feet, tapping with the handle of his hammer.

Thud, thud, thud, then thck.

A hollow sound.

He shown his flashlight on the wall.

It was covered by a heavy motheaten tapestry depicting a hunting scene.

Dogs chasing a stag.

The tapestry had always bothered him.

It was nailed directly into the plaster with heavy iron spikes, crude and permanent.

What are you hiding?” Rob whispered.

He wedged the flat end of his pryar behind the tapestry and heaved.

The fabric tore with a sound like a scream, dust exploding into the air.

He ripped it away, coughing, waving the dust from his eyes.

Behind the tapestry, the plaster was different.

It was newer, rougher.

And in the center, barely visible under a layer of whitewash, was the outline of a square hatch about 3 ft by 3 ft set vertically into the wall.

It wasn’t a door.

It was a plug.

Rob’s heart hammered against his ribs.

Hidden spaces in old houses usually meant one of two things: treasure or tragedy.

Given his luck, he braced for the ladder.

He jammed the crowbar into the seam of the hatch.

It was sealed taut, painted over dozens of times.

He put his weight into it, his boots slipping on the dusty floorboards.

Come on.

With a crack that sounded like a gunshot, the wood gave way.

The hatch popped outward.

Rob stumbled back, dropping the crowbar.

A rush of air escaped the opening.

It didn’t smell like the rest of the house.

It smelled intense of camper, cedar, beeswax, and something chemically sweet like almonds.

It was the smell of preservation.

He shined his light into the hole.

It wasn’t a crawl space.

It was a narrow, steep staircase leading up into the darkness, built into the dead space between the roof pitches.

A secret attic.

Uncle Silas.

Rob breathed.

What did you do? He retrieved his flashlight, gripped the handle tight, and stepped through the hatch.

The stairs were narrow, forcing him to turn his shoulders sideways.

The air grew hotter as he ascended, stifling and still.

He climbed 10 steps, 20.

He reached the top and stepped onto a rough hune floorboard.

The attic was vast, running the entire length of the house, hidden beneath the high peaks of the Victorian roof lines.

The rain hammered on the slate tiles just feet above his head, a deafening drum roll.

The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating a chaotic sea of debris.

It looked like the aftermath of a hurricane.

broken furniture, stacks of newspapers from the 1940s, old trunks, and strange mechanical contraptions that looked like torture devices, but were likely just old farm equipment.

Rob stepped carefully, avoiding the gaps in the floorboards.

He swept the light back and forth.

Just junk, he whispered, feeling a wave of disappointment.

just a hoarder’s nest.

He aimed the light toward the far end of the attic, the deepest shadow under the north gable.

The light caught on something pale wood, fresh, or at least clean.

Rob moved closer, stepping over a roll of rotten carpet.

As he got closer, the shapes resolved.

He stopped.

the breath seized in his lungs.

Piled against the far wall, stacked with chilling precision, were wooden boxes.

They were made of pine, simple and unadorned, but their shape was unmistakable.

They were tapered at one end and wider at the shoulders.

Coffins, but they were small, too small.

Rob counted them, his light trembling.

five, 10, 20, maybe 30 of them.

They were stacked in a pyramid rising toward the rafters.

They were child-sized, roughly 4 ft long each.

“No,” Rob whimpered, shaking his head.

“No, no, no.

” The logic of the situation crashed into him.

Uncle Silas, the recluse, the rumors of his madness, the isolation, the hidden room, the smell of chemicals.

This wasn’t a renovation project.

This was a crime scene, a mass grave.

Rob backed away, his instinct screaming at him to run, to get to his truck and drive until the gas tank was dry.

But he couldn’t.

He was paralyzed by the implications.

If he called the police, the investigation would take months.

The house would be seized.

The sale would be impossible.

He would lose everything.

Emily would lose her tuition.

They would be homeless.

But he couldn’t leave.

This he forced himself to stop moving.

He forced himself to breathe.

Plausibility.

His mind begged.

Find a plausible explanation.

Maybe they were for pets.

Maybe Silas was a woodworker who made coffins for the locals.

But why hide them? Why seal the wall? He had to know.

He couldn’t call the police until he knew what was inside.

Rob approached the stack again.

The wood was smooth, untouched by the dust that covered the rest of the attic.

On the side of the nearest coffin carved into the wood, was a symbol, a stylized eye inside a triangle, and a series of hieroglyphics.

Cult, Rob thought, the dread deepening.

Some kind of ritual.

He reached out, his hand shaken so badly the flashlight beam danced wildly over the wood.

He set the light down on a nearby trunk, aiming it at the coffin.

He gripped the lid.

It was held shut by a simple iron latch.

“I’m sorry,” Rob whispered to whatever was inside.

“I’m so sorry.

” He flipped the latch.

It groaned, a sound of dry metal on metal.

He lifted the lid.

The smell of camp for spice hit him hard, making his eyes water.

He looked down.

He screamed.

A short, strangled sound that died in his throat.

Lying in the box on a bed of yellowed silk was a child.

It was wrapped in linen bandages, but the face was exposed.

The skin was gray and shriveled, pulled tied over the cheekbones.

The eyes were hollow sockets.

The mouth was slightly open, revealing teeth.

It was a mummy, a dead, preserved human child.

Rob stumbled back, his heel catching on a loose board.

He fell hard, the impact jarring his teeth.

He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, crab walking away from the horror.

“Oh God, oh God,” he sobbed.

The tears came then, not just a few, but a torrent.

He sat in the dust of the hidden attic, surrounded by the druming rain, and he broke.

He wept for the child in the box.

He wept for the 30 other boxes.

He wept for his wife Sarah who had died in pain while he held her hand.

He wept for the failure he was.

He had brought his life to this to a house of death inheriting a legacy of monstrosity.

He was done.

He would call the police.

He would go to jail if he had to.

He would let Vance Caldwell bulldoze the whole cursed place.

He sat there for 10 minutes, his chest heaving, his face wet with snot and tears.

The flashlight beam stayed fixed on the open coffin, illuminating the gruesome face of the thing inside.

As his sobbing subsided into hiccups, Rob stared at the face.

Something was bothering him.

The contractor in him, the part of his brain that dealt with materials and textures, was whispering through the panic.

The skin, it didn’t look like skin.

Rob wiped his eyes with his dirty sleeve.

He sniffed.

There was no smell of decay, only the chemicals.

He crawled forward.

He had to be sure.

He had to be absolutely sure before he destroyed his life with a phone call.

He reached the coffin again.

He forced himself to look closely at the skin where it met the linen bandages.

There was a tiny chip on the chin of the figure.

A flake of gray material had peeled away.

Underneath it wasn’t bone or dried flesh.

It was white, chalky.

Rob reached out with a trembling finger and touched the face.

It was hard, rock hard.

He scratched the gray surface with his fingernail.

It flaked off, revealing white plaster.

He touched the teeth.

They were carved from wood.

He grabbed the linen wrap in the chest and squeezed.

It crunched, stiff and unyielding.

He saw a glimmer of copper wire where the arm connected to the shoulder.

It wasn’t a child.

It was a doll.

A mannequin.

Rob let out a breath that sounded like a laugh.

Hysterical and jagged.

He grabbed the side of the coffin to steady himself.

It’s fake.

It’s It’s a prop.

He stood up, his legs wobbly, and moved to the next coffin.

He popped the latch and threw the lid open.

Another mummy.

This one was different.

Its face was twisted in a scream, its hands clawing at the air, but the hands were wire armatures wrapped in wax.

He opened a third, a fourth.

They were all the same, a grotesque army of artificial dead.

Rob leaned against a support beam, laughing until his ribs hurt.

The relief was so intense it felt like a drug.

He wasn’t the nephew of a serial killer.

He was the nephew of a man who collected very, very strange dolls.

But why? Why hide them? Why the secrecy? Rob grabbed his flashlight and descended the stairs, moving with a newfound energy.

He needed answers.

He went straight to the study on the first floor, a room he had used mostly for storing paint cans.

He began tearing through the desk.

He pulled out drawers dumping their contents on the floor, old tax returns, receipts for heating oil, letters from the electric company.

Then he remembered the house.

The house hides things.

He felt under the lip of the heavy oak desk.

There was a catch.

He pressed it.

A false bottom in the deep file drawer clicked open.

Inside was a leather-bound ledger and a stack of black and white photographs.

Rob opened the ledger.

The date on the first page was August 12th, 1922.

The handwriting was spidery and elegant.

Property master’s log.

Silus Ellison.

Project.

The curse of the pharaoh.

Studio.

Epic studios.

Los Angeles.

Rob flipped through the pages.

They were detailed notes on the construction of props.

Sarcophagi constructed of cedar, gold leaf applied to resin statutes, 30 distinct legion figures required for the tomb sequence.

Rob picked up the photographs.

They were glossy 8x10s.

They showed a massive movie set, a temple built in the California desert.

And there, standing next to a man with a megaphone, was a young uncle Silas looking proud.

Behind him were the figures, the exact figures currently sitting in the attic.

Rob pulled out his phone.

He had one bar of signal if he stood by the window.

He googled Epic Studios Curse of the Pharaoh.

The results loaded slowly.

Wikipedia, The Curse of the Pharaoh, 1923.

A lost film directed by Marcus Vain, notorious for its gruesome special effects and the rumored cursed production.

The studio burned to the ground two weeks after filming wrapped.

All prints of the film and all props were believed destroyed in the fire.

Considered the holy grail of lost silent horror cinema, Rob read on.

The Legion of the Dead sequence was said to feature over 30 life-sized hyperrealistic figures created by the legendary sculptor Anton Geral.

Geral died in the fire trying to save his creations.

Rob looked up at the ceiling.

Silas hadn’t stolen them.

He had saved them.

He had smuggled them out before the fire, or maybe during it.

He had brought them back here to the middle of nowhere and built a sanctuary for them.

He had spent 60 years guarding the only surviving remnants of a masterpiece.

The phone buzzed in his hand.

It was a text from the bank.

Final notice.

Payment due.

Rob looked at the photo of the Legion.

Then he looked at the text.

Holy grail,” he whispered.

The next morning, the war began.

Rob was on the roof tarping a leak when he saw the convoy.

It wasn’t just Vance Caldwell this time.

It was a heavyduty excavator on a flatbed trailer, followed by a county sheriff’s cruiser and Vance’s black SUV.

Rob scrambled down the ladder, his heart racing.

He met them at the gate.

Vance stepped out holding a piece of paper.

Looked smug.

Morning.

Rob.

Hate to bring bad news.

What is this? Rob gestured to the excavator.

Emergency condemnation order.

Vance said, waving the paper.

My inspector, who you refused to let in, by the way, filed a report based on exterior observation, structural instability, imminent collapse risk, public safety hazard.

The county judge signed off an hour ago.

We’re pulling it down today.

You can’t do that, Rob said, stepping in front of the gate.

The structure is sound.

I’ve reinforced the peers.

The judge disagrees, Vance said.

Officer, the deputy, a young man who looked like he didn’t want to be there, stepped forward.

Mr.

Ellison, I need you to vacate the premises.

This is a safety issue.

Rob looked at the excavator.

The driver was already firing up the engine.

If they tore the roof off, the mummies would be exposed to the rain.

The plaster would melt.

The wire would rust.

The history would be destroyed in minutes.

“Give me 24 hours,” Rob said.

“No can do,” Vance said, checking his watch.

“Time is money.

” Rob backed up toward the house.

“You’re not knocking this house down.

Don’t make this a criminal trespass situation, Rob.

” The deputy warned.

Rob turned and ran.

He sprinted into the house, slamming the heavy oak door and throwing the deadbolt.

Mr.

Ellison, the deputy shouted.

Rob ignored him.

He ran to the living room and grabbed his screw gun and a stack of 2x4s he had bought for framing.

He ran to the front door and began screwing the lumber directly into the door frame, barricading it.

“Rob, this is foolish,” Vance yelled from outside.

The machine will go right through the wall.

Rob ran to the window.

I have valuable assets inside.

If you damage them, I will sue you for everything you own.

Called well.

I’m calling my lawyer.

It was a bluff.

He didn’t have a lawyer.

He had a brother.

He pulled out his phone.

One bar.

He dialed David.

Rob.

David’s voice was tiny.

I’m in a meeting.

Shut up and listen, Rob shouted.

I’m at the farm.

I found the Lost Legion from The Curse of the Pharaoh, the 1923 movie.

Silence.

Rob, have you been drinking the paint fumes? I have the props, David.

30 of them in the attic.

Vance Caldwell is outside with a bulldozer.

He’s going to destroy them.

I need you to get someone here now.

Someone who matters.

The Lost Legion.

David’s voice changed.

He was a history professor.

He knew the legend.

Rob, if that’s true, that’s that’s the Amber Room of Cinema.

Get Dr.

Rostiva.

Rob said he remembered David mentioning her, a colleague who specialized in film preservation.

Tell her I have the Gerald figures.

Tell her they’re in mint condition.

and tell her she has about 2 hours before a bulldozer eats them.

“I’m on it,” David said.

“Lock the doors.

” “Way ahead of you.

” Outside, the excavator roared to life.

The sound was a mechanical growl that shook the floorboards.

Rob ran to the second floor.

He could see the boom of the machine rising over the porch roof.

Vance was talking to the operator, pointing at the northeast corner, the living room.

Rob opened the window.

Hey, he screamed.

Hey.

Vance looked up.

I have hazardous materials in here.

Rob lied desperate.

Asbestous insulation.

If you crush it, you’ll contaminate the whole site.

You’ll be in EPA court for 20 years.

Vance hesitated.

He raised a hand to the operator.

He knew about environmental regulations.

They were the one thing that scared developers more than lost profits.

“You’re lying,” Vance shouted back.

“Take the risk,” Rob challenged.

“Go ahead, breath it in.

” Vance pulled his phone out.

He was calling someone, probably his own lawyers or environmental consultants.

It bought time.

For three hours, it was a standoff.

Rob paced the hallway, watching the driveway.

The deputy was drinking coffee on the hood of his car.

Vance was pacing, arguing on his phone.

Then a cloud of dust appeared on the horizon.

A station wagon driving entirely too fast for the dirt road careened into the driveway, skidding to a halt behind the excavator.

David jumped out, followed by a woman with wild gray hair and a pair of thick spectacles hanging around her neck.

Rob unbarred the front door and ran out to the porch.

“Stop!” the woman yelled, marching straight up to Vance.

She was small, but she moved with the authority of a tank commander.

“I am Dr.

Elena Rostiva from the National Film Archive.

If you touch this structure, you will be destroying cultural heritage protected under federal preservation statutes.

Vance blinked.

What? Who are you? Federal preservation? Rob whispered to David.

I made that part up.

David whispered back.

But she is Dr.

Rostiva.

I demand to see the artifacts.

Rosta said, turning to Rob.

Show me.

Rob led them inside.

The deputy followed, curious now.

Vance trailed behind, looking furious.

They climbed the stairs.

Rob removed the tapestry.

He opened the hatch.

Up there, Rob said.

Dr.

Rostiva climbed the stairs like a teenager.

David followed.

Rob brought up the rear.

The attic was silent, save for the rain.

Rosta stood before the pyramid of coffins.

She put a hand to her mouth.

She trembled.

“Impossible,” she whispered.

She approached the open coffin, the one Rob had panicked over.

She leaned in, her face inches from the mummy.

She pulled a jeweler’s loop from her pocket.

She examined the skin.

She examined the wire visible at the joint.

“Aton Gerald’s signature weave,” she murmured.

“Wax over plaster over copper armature.

the eyes glass blowing from Venice.

My god.

She turned to the group.

Her eyes were wet.

Do you know what this is? Junk, Vance said from the top of the stairs.

Creepy junk.

This, Rostiva said, her voice shaken with rage.

Is the cinematic equivalent of find in a sketch by Da Vinci in a dumpster.

These figures were the first use of articulated animatronics in film history.

They are priceless, she turned to the deputy.

Officer, I am declaring this site a historical discovery of national significance.

If this man, she pointed advance, damages a single splinter of this roof, I will personally ensure the arts council sues him into bankruptcy and the press brands him a cultural vandal.

The deputy looked at Vance.

Sir, I think we should pause the demolition.

Vance looked at the coffins.

He looked at Rob.

He saw the fire in Rob’s eyes.

He realized he had lost.

The tear down was now a treasure trove.

He couldn’t bulldoze it without becoming a pariah.

“Fine,” Vance spat.

“Enjoy your dolls.

” He turned and stomped down the stairs.

Rob slumped against a support beam.

David grabbed his shoulder.

You did it, Robbie.

You really did it.

The auction took place two months later in New York City.

It was a black tie affair.

Rob wore a rented tuxedo that felt strange after months of wearing carhearten flannel.

Emily stood next to him looking at the catalog with wide eyes.

Lot 45.

The Lost Legions of Anubis.

Complete set.

Providence, the estate of Silus Ellison.

The bidding started at $500,000.

Rob held his breath.

600.

A voice called out.

700.

1 million.

It was a war between the Academy Museum, a private collector in Dubai, and the Smithsonian.

2 million.

2.

5.

The gavvel slammed down at $3.

2 million.

Rob didn’t cheer.

He just squeezed Emily’s hand.

The debt was gone.

The tuition was paid.

The fear, the constant grinding fear of the last 3 years evaporated.

But the money wasn’t the best part.

6 months later, Rob stood in the attic of Blackwood Farm.

The roof was new.

The windows were sealed and energyefficient.

The dust was gone.

The floorboards were sanded and varnished to a warm honey color.

The coffins were gone, now residing in a climate controlled exhibit in Los Angeles.

But the attic wasn’t empty.

Rob had turned it into a studio, not for movies, but for himself, drafting tables, blueprints for his new contracting business, Ellison Restoration.

He specialized in saving old houses.

Now he walked to the far wall where the coffins had been stacked.

He had hung a framed photo there.

It was a picture of Uncle Silas on the movie set looking proud of his monsters.

Rob touched the frame.

“Thanks, Uncle C.

” he whispered.

He turned and walked downstairs, not to a house of ghosts, but to a home.

The floorboards didn’t creek anymore.

They just held him up solid and sure.