The Whispering House

The old house at the end of Cedar Lane had been abandoned for decades. Its paint was chipped, windows broken, and the gate hung crooked on rusty hinges. Everyone in town whispered about it, but nobody dared go near it—except for me.

It started with curiosity. I had just moved to the town, and the stories intrigued me. They said the house was haunted, that at night you could hear whispers calling your name, and that anyone who stayed too long never came back the same. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I was drawn to the house like a moth to a flame.

One chilly October evening, I decided to explore it. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving a pale silver light that barely illuminated the street. My flashlight flickered as I pushed open the creaking gate. The air smelled of damp earth and decay. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the porch.

The front door was surprisingly heavy, and it groaned as I forced it open. Inside, the house was cold, much colder than the night outside. Dust floated in the beams of my flashlight, and old furniture loomed like shadowy figures. I felt a shiver run down my spine, but I convinced myself it was just the chill.

I walked through the living room, careful not to touch the broken furniture. That’s when I first heard it—a soft whisper. At first, I thought it was the wind, but then the whisper grew clearer.

“Help… me…”

I froze. My heart pounded in my chest. The sound seemed to come from the staircase leading to the second floor. Against my better judgment, I climbed the stairs. Each step groaned under my weight, echoing through the empty house.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched before me, lined with closed doors. The whispering grew louder, more insistent.

“Don’t… leave… me…”

I turned to leave, but the hallway seemed longer than before, twisting in ways that didn’t make sense. The doors I had passed before were no longer where they should have been. Panic started to rise, but I told myself I was imagining things.

A door at the far end of the hall was slightly ajar. The whispers were strongest there. I pushed it open and found a small bedroom, untouched by time. A child’s bed lay in the corner, and toys were scattered on the floor, coated in dust. On the wall, someone had written in what looked like smeared ash:

“She waits for you.”

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind me. My flashlight flickered and went out. I was plunged into darkness. Then I felt it—a cold hand brushing against my arm. I screamed and swung my flashlight on, but no one was there. The whispers had turned into multiple voices, speaking at once, urgent and pleading.

“Stay… with me… forever…”

I ran to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The air grew thick, making it hard to breathe. Shadows moved along the walls, forming shapes of people I couldn’t recognize, faces twisted in silent screams. I backed away until I stumbled over a toy and fell. My flashlight rolled across the floor, its beam landing on a small mirror.

And in the mirror, I saw her. A little girl, pale and gaunt, with dark hollow eyes, staring straight at me. She smiled, but it was not a friendly smile—it was hunger.

“You came,” she whispered, though her mouth didn’t move.

I scrambled to my feet, and the room seemed to stretch, growing taller and narrower. The whispers were everywhere now, surrounding me, echoing in my head. I felt myself being pulled toward the bed, as if invisible hands were dragging me down.

Desperate, I smashed the mirror with the flashlight. The glass shattered, and the whispers stopped. Silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. I stumbled to the door, which now opened easily. I didn’t look back as I ran down the stairs, through the living room, and out into the night.

When I reached the street, I collapsed, gasping for breath. The house loomed silently behind me, as if nothing had happened. But I knew better. I could still hear a faint whisper, carried on the wind.

“Come back…”

The next morning, I tried to tell someone about it, but the house looked different in daylight. Windows boarded up, porch crumbling, yet no sign of the room, the mirror, or the message on the wall. It was as if it had never existed.

I moved away from the town shortly after. But even now, years later, I can still hear her voice when the wind howls. And sometimes, late at night, I swear I see her pale face in reflective surfaces, smiling hungrily, waiting for me to return to the whispering house.

The worst part is… I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist.