It was just an old, dusty rocking chair in the attic, abandoned here by the home's previous owners.
Then there was that creak. Every night, after darkness had completely cloaked the world in an infinite void of black, there came a repetitive creaking sound from above his bedroom ceiling.
Creak.
There it was again. Creak after creak, creaking until all he could think about was creaks, slowly consuming his mind.
Creak.
"Enough." he thought. The boy sluggishly removed his covers and stepped out of his bed. As he got up, the bed made a sound:
Creak.
He began slowly trotting, each step against the wood on his floor making a sound:
Creak.
Each step made the boy cringe, creak after creak after creak. For four whole weeks, he had heard that creak, ever since he had moved in to this vile mountain abode. The combination of the creaks from his footsteps and the creaks from the attic irritated the boy greatly.
Creak.
The boy stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the attic. He laid his foot down on the first step. Once again, that noise.
Creak.
Each step up the stairs was torture. The creaks were becoming louder, more aggravating.
Creak.
He stood in front of the door. Hesitantly, he reached for the knob. As the boy opened the door, it hinges produced a familiar sound.
Creak.
A scruffy, bearded old man sat in the rocking chair. His pale, wrinkled face looked up at the boy with a sorrowful expression. He continued to move back and forth on his rocking chair.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
The boy wanted to walk towards him. Why? No, it wasn't curiosity, something much deeper. It felt as if something was pulling him.
Yes, there was definitely something pulling him. The boy staggered forward, drawing closer and closer to the old man.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
It was a young girl pulling him towards the old man. The girl appeared to have had her eyes gouged out. Blood was gushing from her wounds, drop after drop of it dripping on to the ground.
But the boy heard no drip, only
Creak. Creak. Creak.
He was standing in front of the old man now. This elderly man raised his bony, pale hand and leisurely stroked it through the boy's hair.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
The chair ceased to creak as the old man stood up.
The girl with no eyes wrapped her arms around the boy's chest, holding him in place.
The boy shuttered as the old man gradually ran his dusty, dry tongue across the boy's face. Terrified, the boy closed his eyes.

Once morning came, the boy did not come for breakfast. His parents desperately searched for him throughout the house once they realized his absence.
They found him in the attic. A look of shear horror stuck on his lifeless body, sitting on that old rocking chair in the attic. As the chair rocked back and forth, a sound was again and again produced:
Creak.