By Kadrolsha Ona Carole
The Gift, A Father’s Day Horror Story
Graham woke up to the smell of bacon and coffee. His daughter, Emily, stood by the bed holding a tray, beaming.
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad! I made breakfast!”
He smiled, ruffling her hair. She was only twelve but had been taking on more responsibility since her mother passed away.
As he sipped his coffee, she placed a wrapped box on his lap. “I found this in the attic. I thought you’d want it.”
Graham frowned. He never went up there. After his father—her grandfather—died, he had locked the attic door and forgotten about it.
“Where did you get the key?”
Emily shrugged. “It was already unlocked.”
He hesitated, then unwrapped the gift. Inside was an old leather journal—the cover warped, the edges crumbling. He knew it immediately. It was his father’s.
A chill crept down his spine. His father had always carried this book, scribbling things in it late at night. But Graham had never dared to look inside.
He flipped open to the first page. The ink was faded, but the words remained clear.
“Blood binds us. Blood calls us. Blood must be answered.”
“What does it say?” Emily asked, peering over his shoulder.
He turned the page, and his breath caught in his throat. The handwriting shifted—messier, frantic.
“She still speaks to me. I hear her at night. She is waiting.”
A soft creak came from the attic.
Graham’s body tensed. That was impossible. He had sealed it shut.
Another creak—like footsteps.
Emily’s grip tightened on his arm. “Dad… who’s up there?”
Graham swallowed hard. He closed the book.
The air suddenly felt heavy, the sunlight dimming as if something pressed against the walls, waiting. Watching.
Then, from the attic, a whisper—dry and rasping.
“Graham.”
Emily screamed as the attic door slowly swung open.
And beyond the threshold… stood the impossible.
His father.
Thin. Pale. Lips pulled into a grin too wide, too unnatural.
Holding another box.
“Happy Father’s Day, son.”
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