The Calls From the Attic

My dead grandmother called me last night from her disconnected phone. I answered without

thinking and heard her raspy voice say my childhood nickname that nobody else knew.

She told me she was waiting for me in the attic. I hung up immediately, hands shaking,

but the phone rang again. And again. Seven times. Each time,

her voice got angrier. Finally I unplugged it, but then my cell started ringing

from an unknown number. I let it go to voicemail. Big mistake. Her message said

she was already inside the house. That's when I heard footsteps above me,

creaking across the attic floor. The same shuffle she had before the stroke killed her.