The whispering shadows

 

The Whispers in the Dark

Late one autumn evening, Sarah moved into an old, secluded house on the outskirts of town. It was a small, decaying cottage with an eerie history that no one liked to talk about. The previous owners had left in haste, leaving behind their belongings and a thick silence that seemed to engulf the place.

The first few nights passed uneventfully, but then Sarah began to hear strange noises. At first, it was just the creaking of old floorboards or the wind howling through the cracks in the walls. But one night, as she lay in bed, she heard something different—a faint whisper, like a voice just out of reach. It was coming from the corner of her room, where the shadows seemed darker than anywhere else.

Curious but also unnerved, Sarah brushed it off as the wind or her imagination playing tricks on her. However, the whispers grew louder each night, always at the same time—around midnight. They seemed to be calling her name, soft and coaxing, as if inviting her to listen. Despite the fear gnawing at her, she resisted the urge to investigate.

But one night, the whispers were different. They weren’t just calling her name anymore. They were repeating strange phrases, words that didn’t make sense, almost like an ancient language Sarah couldn’t place. Her heart pounded in her chest as she lay frozen in her bed, staring at the dark corner where the sound originated. The whispers were now accompanied by soft scraping noises, as if something—or someone—was moving around.

Unable to sleep, Sarah decided to explore the house during the day. She started with the attic, a place she had avoided so far. As she climbed up the creaky stairs, she felt a cold chill that didn’t match the warmth of the sun outside. Dust and cobwebs hung in the corners, and old furniture was stacked haphazardly, abandoned for years.

In the back of the attic, she found a wooden chest, its surface scratched and worn with age. Intrigued, she opened it and found a collection of strange artifacts—old books, tarnished jewelry, and an ornate mirror. The mirror seemed out of place, its frame intricately carved with symbols Sarah didn’t recognize. She picked it up, inspecting it closely, when she noticed something odd in the reflection—a shadow moving in the corner of the room.

Suddenly, a cold gust of wind slammed the attic door shut, and the whispers returned, louder than ever. They were no longer faint and distant; they were right behind her, chilling and insistent. Sarah spun around, her breath coming in short gasps, but the room was empty. The shadows in the corners twisted and shifted, and she could feel a presence, something that wasn’t quite human.

Panicked, she dropped the mirror and ran down the stairs, but the whispers followed her, echoing through the walls, growing stronger and more desperate. When she reached the front door, she found it wouldn’t open. She turned back to the house, eyes wide with terror. It was then that she saw them—dozens of faces, pale and ghostly, staring at her from the windows, their eyes empty and lifeless.

The whispers grew louder, now a chorus of voices chanting her name, demanding her to stay. But Sarah knew she couldn’t. She had to leave. With all her strength, she finally wrenched the door open and ran out into the night.

As she fled, she looked back one last time at the house, and saw the faces pressing against the windows, watching her. She never returned to that cottage, and the whispers never stopped. They still follow her in her dreams, a reminder that some things in this world—old, forgotten things—are never truly gone.