It was a very old house. The owner there was mysteriously murdered. Many people started talking about the old man after he passed. They were trying to gain an understanding of what had happened to him. He was into sales and spent much of his life traveling the world and was never at home. It seemed that the old man's house was only really used for storage for the things he bought while he was traveling. No one really knows how he died, but they say that it happened in the attic.

One night, we decided to go check it out. Breaking into the house wasn't even breaking in. The door wasn't even locked. It slowly creaked open as we stepped inside and we could feel the wind rush past from behind us and begin to air out the old house. We could smell old wood, mold and dust all around the place. It was the most dark and quiet place that we had ever been in. We looked around the house and were amazed to find that everything was still in it's place, though there were some sheets covering furniture. We closed the front door and made use of our flash lights. Mostly old statues and wooden boxes were all that occupied the rooms. These were antiques but yet they seemed like they could be worth something of value.

We found the staircase with much ease and crept up to the top of the steps. To the right of the stairs, we could see another flight of stairs. We knew exactly where they led to. They led right to the attic and right to where we wanted to go. We made it all the way to the top of the final steps and with every step the stairs would creak. The door of the attic was closed but had no handle. There was only a hole where the door knob should be. I looked through the hole and could see moonlight coming through a small window and it was shining onto the floor. I swung the door open and we stepped inside.

We shined our lights onto the wooden floor and saw a giant black stain in the center. Our only guess was that the stain was made of old blood from the crime scene that they never fully cleaned up. No one had been to the house since the night it happened so it was no surprise. Our eyes scanned the room and fell on insulated wooden walls and nothing else. The room was empty. My friend sighed and turned to leave. He started down the stairs but I stayed in the room to look around for another minute. I walked to the center of the room and stared down at the stain. That was the moment when the coldest chill I'd ever felt crawled up my back. I saw what looked like footprints leading out of the mess on the floor and to the wall across the room. I followed the trail, with my flashlight in hand, to the wall and stopped to study it. I felt all over the wall as I looked around and realized that there were no windows there. There was no secret escape hole and there was no way for this to make any sense. By studying the structure I realized that the footprints just lead into the wall and disappeared. Hell, even the last step was halfway cut off at the end of the floor.

I turned and walked as fast as I could to the doorway and then darted down the stairs. My friend greeted me at the bottom. That house scared the shit out of me and I just wanted to leave. We walked down the sidewalk and to the car, started it and drove off. What happened on the night of the murder is still a mystery. Maybe it should stay that way...