“Both of you, up the stairs,” Ethan ordered, pointing the gun at Daniel and Megan.

Megan scrambled out of the closet, her knees shaking as she stood up.

She looked at me, her eyes wide with terror, but she didn’t say a word.

“Move,” Ethan repeated, nudging Daniel with the barrel of the gun.

Daniel slowly began to climb the steep, uncarpeted attic stairs.

Megan followed him, and Ethan forced me to walk right behind her.

The air grew colder as we climbed higher into the house.

The smell of old paper, dust, and dry rot filled my nose.

We reached the top landing, a small, dusty platform surrounded by stored boxes and old furniture.

Rain lashed against the small octagonal window at the peak of the roof.

Ethan pushed me into the center of the room, near an old wooden table.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to two dusty chairs.

Daniel and Megan sat down, while I remained standing, my back against the wooden table.

Ethan reached into his wet coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

He threw it onto the dusty table.