Long after even those they haunted were forgotten, the attic ghosts continued to howl. Alas, they frightened no one but themselves. The house, their prison, sunk into disuse, creeping with cobwebs and memory, abandoned even by rats. Nature reclaimed the grounds inch by inch as the decades passed. Lichen creeped up crumbling walls. They lingered in a manse too old, too irrelevant, to condemn.
They spent eternity, when not beguiling themselves with the mournful music of the haunt, remembering the good old days. When other spirits and when the living frequented their halls. When they existed in static symbiosis: The spirits never left; man was never scared away. They dreamt, during the aimless days and sleepless nights that soon those times would return. That someone would rediscover the house on the hill and beat away the passage of time, and bear them back to the past when they were feared, remembered and revered.
They clung to each other in the dark, voicelessly declaring to the universe: "We are here! We still have a place!" Whether this was to convince themselves or the all encroaching silence, they no longer remembered. They circled each other, creatures of light and of shadow. Creatures who existed between life and death, never quite belonging to either. Creatures who were shunned by both.
Time continued to pass, warping the world around them. The attic collapsed. The roof caved. And even the foundation melted to rubble. Still they hoped that one day life would return, life would remember them and would once again be frightened by their feet upon the stair, by their pattering on a ceiling in a house that would one day rise again.
And one day, far in the future, when nothing remains of what man built there but a quarry in the midst of a forest on a hill, a light calls to them. Come home. It caresses.
We are home.
There is nothing for you here, not living nor dead. Come home. Come join us.
And they resist, and deny the truth that has stared them in the face for centuries. Man will never return. But eventually they relent, and fade away into the afterlife, still embracing, and become part of a new world. One that is wholly their own.
And anyone who hikes through that mountain thereafter will hear a soft whisper on the wind. An echo of the time the attic ghosts spent there, the cohabitation of death with life. It will sing to them:
Once here were attic ghosts, haunting the top of an ancient manse, thumping and moaning in the dust. They howled; they danced, and men were afraid, reminded by their fear that this world housed forces they would never understand.
And in their own way… they were happy.