Clara stepped into the old Victorian house on Elm Street, the air thick with the scent of dust and faded lavender. Her mother’s funeral had been that morning, a sparse affair with only a handful of distant relatives and a priest who barely knew the deceased. Now, alone in the home where she grew up, Clara felt the weight of thirty years pressing down. The house creaked like an old man’s bones, whispering secrets she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.

She wandered through the rooms, fingers trailing over yellowed wallpaper peeling at the edges. The kitchen still had the same chipped Formica counters where her mother had baked apple pies on Sundays. Upstairs, her childhood bedroom remained untouched, a time capsule of pink bedspreads and posters of boy bands long forgotten. But it was the attic that called to her, a forbidden space from her youth, accessed by a pull-down ladder that groaned in protest as she tugged the cord.

Dust motes danced in the beam of her flashlight as she climbed. Boxes of holiday decorations, her father’s old tools, and trunks filled with forgotten clothes cluttered the space. In the corner, beneath a tarp, sat a small wooden chest she didn’t remember. Kneeling, she pried it open. Inside lay a child’s diary, its cover adorned with stickers of unicorns and hearts. Her handwriting, unmistakable even after decades: ‘Clara’s Secrets, Age 10.’

Heart pounding, she flipped through the pages. Innocent entries about school crushes and playground adventures. Then, dated June 15th, 1994: ‘Sarah and I played hide and seek in the woods today. She hid too good. I looked forever but couldn’t find her. Mom says she’s probably home already.’ The next day: ‘Sarah’s still gone. Police came. Everyone’s sad. I feel bad for not finding her.’

Sarah. The name hit like a thunderclap. Her best friend, the girl next door who vanished without a trace one summer afternoon. The town had buzzed with theories—abduction, runaway, wild animals. But no body, no clues. Sarah Jenkins, nine years old, became a ghost story. Clara had moved away at twelve, the pain too raw, burying the friendship deep in her memory.

Why had she hidden the diary? And why did reading it now stir a nausea that clawed at her gut? That night, Clara barely slept. Dreams fragmented and feverish: Sarah’s laughter echoing through trees, a flash of red hair, the snap of twigs underfoot. She woke sweating, convinced she’d heard a child’s voice calling her name from the attic.

The next morning, she drove to the old neighborhood, now a ghost town of sagging porches and overgrown lots. Mrs. Hargrove, Sarah’s mother, still lived in the house next door, frailer but sharp-eyed. ‘Clara? My god, it’s been ages. Come in, dear.’ Over weak tea, Mrs. Hargrove recounted the day. ‘Sarah went out to play after lunch. Said something about meeting you in the woods behind the houses. Never came back.’

Clara’s skin prickled. ‘Did she say that? I don’t remember.’ Mrs. Hargrove nodded. ‘Police questioned you, but you were in shock, poor thing. Clammed up.’ Clara left with a knot in her stomach, memories flickering like bad reception. She hadn’t clammed up; she’d been terrified, but of what?

At the library, she pored over microfilm of old newspapers. Headlines screamed ‘Local Girl Missing’ and ‘Search Called Off After Weeks.’ An interview with her mother: ‘Clara’s devastated. They were inseparable.’ A photo of the two girls, arms linked, grinning gap-toothed smiles. Clara stared, a shadow of unease growing. In the picture, Sarah wore a locket, a silver heart her father gave her. Clara touched her own neck instinctively—had she worn one too?

That evening, back in the attic, she found more: Sarah’s locket, tangled in a box of her own old jewelry. How? Panic surged. She pocketed it and descended, mind racing. Dreams intensified. Now, she saw flashes: Sarah’s face twisted in anger, words shouted—’You’re not my friend anymore!’ A push, a scream, silence.

She visited the police station. Detective Rollins, retired now but willing to talk. ‘Cold case. No leads. You remember anything new?’ Clara hesitated. ‘Just… dreams. About the woods.’ He leaned forward. ‘We searched those woods top to bottom. Nothing.’ But his eyes held doubt, as if he sensed her withholding.

Nights blurred into a haze of insomnia and obsession. Clara walked the woods daily, now reclaimed by nature, paths overgrown. She called out Sarah’s name, half-expecting a reply. Neighbors whispered; the woman poking in bushes, reliving old ghosts. One day, old man Wilkins, who owned the adjacent lot, confronted her. ‘What you digging for, missy? Buried treasure?’

‘Did you see anything back then?’ she asked. He shrugged. ‘Kids playing rough. Heard yelling once, but figured it was play.’ Yelling. The word lodged in her throat.

The dreams evolved into near-waking visions. She saw herself and Sarah arguing over a stolen diary page—Sarah had found Clara’s secret crush and teased her mercilessly. ‘Liar! You told everyone!’ The scuffle near the old oak, Sarah backing away, foot slipping on mossy ground. Clara’s hand outstretched—not to help, but in fury. The fall, the crack of skull on rock. Blood. Sarah’s eyes glazing over.

Clara jolted awake, gasping. No. Impossible. She was ten, innocent. But the locket burned in her pocket. She drove to the woods at dawn, the spot from her vision: a massive oak, roots like gnarled fingers. She dug with bare hands, dirt caking nails. Hours passed, nothing. Defeated, she sat against the trunk, sobbing.

Then, a glint. Beneath a root, half-buried, a small bone. Child-sized. Her scream shattered the silence.

But it was the next discovery that unraveled her. In her attic, rummaging frantically, she found not just the diary, but Sarah’s diary too, hidden inside her own chest. Pages chronicling their friendship, ending abruptly: ‘Clara said she’d kill me if I told. She’s crazy.’ Forged? No, Sarah’s handwriting.

The visions coalesced into memory, sharp as glass. After the fall, panic. Dragging the body deeper into woods, covering it with leaves, branches. Running home, washing blood from hands in the creek. Telling herself Sarah ran away, angry. Years of repression, guilt morphing into blankness.

She’d reported playing hide and seek to police, planting the seed of runaway. Neighbors’ vague memories shaped by her words. The town believed because she made them.

Clara collapsed, the diaries clutched to her chest. The phone rang—Detective Rollins. ‘Found something in the woods today. Thought you’d want to know.’ Her voice steady, finally: ‘I know where she is. I did it.’

She confessed everything, the attic stairs trembling under her as police arrived. Handcuffed, led out into flashing lights, she felt a strange peace. The guilt, buried so deep, finally unearthed. Sarah’s ghost no longer whispered; it was silent, forgiven in truth’s light.

As the car pulled away, Clara glanced back at the house. In the attic window, for a split second, she saw two little girls waving goodbye.