Whispers From the Attic

Haris had never believed in ghosts. He liked to think of the world in practical terms—science, evidence, and reason. That was why he ignored the old warnings about his family’s ancestral house. He had inherited the property after his uncle passed away, a sprawling two-story mansion on the outskirts of the city, long abandoned and rumored to be cursed. Locals said strange things happened there: lights flickering, voices in empty hallways, doors opening by themselves. Haris dismissed it all as superstition, planning only to clean it, sell it, and move on.

The first few days in the house were uneventful, almost peaceful. Dust coated every surface, and cobwebs draped corners like delicate curtains. Haris explored slowly, taking notes, checking the structural integrity, and making plans for renovations. But on the third evening, as he climbed the narrow staircase leading to the attic, he felt it—the temperature dropped sharply, his breath visible in the air despite the warm summer night. He shook it off, attributing it to the stagnant air of the unoccupied mansion.

That night, he was awakened by soft whispers. At first, he thought it was the wind sneaking through cracks in the old windows. But the whispers were deliberate, coherent. They seemed to carry his name. Haris sat up in bed, straining to hear, but the sound stopped when he turned on the lights. He told himself it was imagination, stress, or fatigue.

Curiosity overcame caution. The next day, he ascended to the attic during daylight, expecting nothing. The room was filled with old furniture, trunks, and dust-covered boxes. Nothing unusual. But as he unpacked one box, he found a stack of journals—his uncle’s handwriting covering every page. The entries were mostly mundane at first, recounting repairs, finances, and family affairs. But deeper into the journals, the writing changed. The pages described strange rituals, whispering shadows, and the attic itself “listening” to the house’s occupants. One entry chilled him: “The attic remembers. If you disturb it, it will speak.”

That night, the whispers returned. Haris could hear them clearly now, coming from the ceiling above. The attic. He tried to ignore it, but each whisper grew sharper, more insistent, repeating his name over and over. Sleep fled him. Hours passed. He lay frozen, unable to move, feeling the air around him thicken, like invisible hands brushing against his skin.

Unable to endure the terror, he decided to confront the source. He climbed the stairs to the attic at midnight, flashlight in hand. The beam trembled across dusty furniture and old trunks. The air was thick, oppressive, filled with a low hum that seemed to come from inside the walls themselves. And then he saw it—a shadow at the far end of the attic, darker than darkness, moving independently of the light.

“Who’s there?” Haris demanded, voice cracking.

The shadow pulsed, stretching toward him. The whispers multiplied, coming from every corner, surrounding him. The journals he had found earlier seemed to vibrate as if alive, pages rustling without wind. Panic surged through him, and he stumbled backward, tripping over a trunk. The shadow surged forward, faster than humanly possible, and suddenly vanished as Haris hit the floor. Silence followed.

He ran downstairs, heart hammering, vowing never to return to the attic. But the whispers continued, now inside his head, repeating his thoughts, his fears, mocking him. He could hear the faint creak of the attic stairs, even when he wasn’t near them. Doors he closed slammed shut. Windows opened on their own. The house had become aware of him.

Desperation drove him to leave, but the front door would not budge. Every exit led back into the hallways, twisting endlessly, as though the mansion itself had changed. He realized then that the house was no longer a place—it was a trap, alive, feeding on fear, aware of his every thought.

Days later, neighbors reported a faint light flickering in the abandoned mansion. No one saw Haris again. Some swear they hear soft whispers coming from the attic on quiet nights, calling names that do not belong to the living.

And the journals? They remain, hidden in dust, waiting for the next person curious enough to disturb them, ready to teach the house a new name.