DEAD WINTER: A CRYPTIC Anthology

The attic was a forgotten realm, a place of dust and dim light where old memories went to die. Jack, armed with a singular, mocking lightbulb, ventured into its depths with a practical purpose: retrieve the old Christmas tree. But fate, ever the trickster, had other plans.

A slip on a discarded newspaper, a foot jammed into a broken wooden wall, and Jack found himself sprawled, winded, in the haze of neglect. His shoe, lost in the shadows, beckoned him into the untouched darkness behind the boarding.

He recoiled as something crawled across his hand. Not a spider, he reasoned, but the creeping dread of the unknown. Gritting his teeth, he reached back in, expecting his shoe, but instead, his fingers closed around something bulky, something very old. A box. Faded, with a tiny latch and an ornate 'J' carved on its lid. His initial. A shiver, not of cold, but of a nascent curiosity, traced its way down his spine.