The Whispering House

 The Whispering House

The old mansion on Blackwood Lane had been abandoned for decades. It stood like a silent sentinel, its windows dark and empty, its once-grand facade crumbling under the weight of time. Locals whispered of strange occurrences, of flickering lights and ghostly murmurs, but no one dared venture inside—until Alex did.

Alex was a skeptic. He didn't believe in ghosts, curses, or any of the nonsense people spouted about the house. So when his friends dared him to spend the night inside, he accepted without hesitation. Armed with a flashlight, a camera, and a sleeping bag, he pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside.

The air was thick with dust and decay. The wooden floor creaked beneath his feet as he moved through the grand hall, his flashlight casting long, eerie shadows along the peeling wallpaper. He could almost hear the echoes of the past—the laughter of children, the whispers of long-gone inhabitants.

He set up his sleeping bag in what seemed to be the living room, near a grand fireplace. The furniture, though covered in dust, remained untouched, as if waiting for someone to return. He took out his camera and began snapping pictures, pausing now and then to listen. The silence was oppressive.

Hours passed, and nothing happened. Feeling triumphant, Alex settled into his sleeping bag, convinced he would prove everyone wrong. But as he drifted into uneasy sleep, a sound woke him—a whisper, soft and almost melodic.

His eyes snapped open. The room was dark, his flashlight having rolled away. He reached for it and flicked it on, sweeping the beam across the room. Nothing. The whispering had stopped.

He let out a shaky breath and lay back down, telling himself it was just his imagination. But then, he heard it again—closer this time.

A chill ran down his spine as he realized the whispers weren’t coming from one direction but from all around him. It was as if the walls themselves were murmuring secrets in voices too low to understand.

"Who's there?" he called out, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.

No answer. Only whispers.

His camera. Maybe it had captured something. With fumbling hands, he grabbed it and checked the last photo he had taken. His heart froze.

The picture showed the fireplace, the dusty furniture... and a figure. A woman in a tattered dress, her face obscured by a mass of tangled hair. She stood just behind where he had been sitting.

A sharp knock echoed from the ceiling. Then another. And another. It was as if someone—or something—was crawling in the walls.

Panic surged through him. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over the camera as the whispers turned into hushed laughter. The sound was unbearably close now, as if invisible lips were right next to his ear.

His flashlight flickered. In its weak glow, he saw movement in the shadows. Shapes shifting, faces forming and dissolving. The air turned ice-cold as something brushed against his arm.

He bolted.

Running blindly through the house, he stumbled down the hallway, past rooms filled with decayed furniture and unseen eyes watching from the dark. The front door loomed ahead, but just as he reached for the handle, the whispers coalesced into a single, clear voice.

"Stay."

The door slammed shut before he could open it. His scream was lost in the cacophony of laughter as unseen hands yanked him backward.

The next morning, his friends found the door wide open, his sleeping bag untouched. His camera lay in the dust, the last photo still displayed on the screen.

The woman in the tattered dress was now staring directly into the lens, her mouth stretched into an unnatural grin.

Alex was never seen again.