Scrubman and the greasy mirror attic 1

You look up to the drawstring of the cursed attic, it's dripping.
Reaching a pale hand out you grasp the string and pull, the trap-door moans and plops open sweatelly.
You can already smell the chinese takeout you left up here three months ago at the snowflake day party as you walk up the quivering steps into your attic.
The atmosphere is: [MENACING]
Exits are: Down