She tilted her head up, light pointed to the ceiling, but there was too much insulation in the way to see if there was a gap in the tiles. None of the wood or foam above her seemed corrupted, though. For how large the stain was, she would have expected signs on the ceiling if it came from a drip.

Margot turned back to the mark and bent close, her free other hand braced at her side, careful not to touch any of the darkened surface. She blew on the dust, trying to drive some of it away to get a clearer view, but it stuck there.

What is it?

It seemed to have damaged the wood irreparably. While the boards around her all had clear edges and visible grains, anything beneath the stain had become soft and dense, like it was being melted. It glistened as though still damp. Carefully, Margot moved a finger toward the surface, preparing to touch it.

A soft, breathy sound came from behind. Margot jolted, her heart in her throat, as she swung toward the noise. It had sounded like a sigh coming from somewhere far behind her.

Her shaking light darted across exposed beams and gently spiraling dust motes. She couldn’t see the other end of the winding attic space, but there was no sign of any presence.

The wind, maybe? Would it make that kind of noise if it slipped through a crack in the roof ?

She didn’t know what to trust anymore. Her eyes and ears were sending her information, but superstition had her so tightly in its grip that she couldn’t tell if her reactions were measured or unreasonable.

Margot held still until her legs began to cramp and her arm felt too heavy to keep it extended. Slowly, reluctantly, she returned to the stain on the floor. The phone’s light shimmered over the moisture hidden beneath the boards. She pressed her fingertip into it. The wood was spongy, like she’d thought; it began to crumble beneath even a light touch. She pressed harder and part of the surface gave way. A viscous, dark liquid bubbled up from the pressure.

She withdrew her hand. Something long and sharp-tipped stretched out of the hole. Margot’s first thought was of a splinter, except the splinter was moving, curving up and out, and then it was followed by a spider’s body, drenched in the stain’s color, its stick legs stabbing into the rotted wood as it wound its way toward Margot.

She flinched back, out of its path, using her elbows and knees to scrape herself through the dust.

The spider continued, undisturbed. She could swear she heard the faint clicking noises of its legs hitting the floor as it roved past the edge of her light and vanished deeper into the attic.