The Whispering House

The whispering house

The rain lashed against the car windows as Emma squinted through the windshield, gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands. The GPS had long since lost signal, and the countryside roads seemed endless, twisting through dark woods that loomed like silent sentinels. She cursed under her breath, wishing she’d taken the earlier exit toward the interstate.

Finally, she spotted a faint glow through the trees—a house. Relief flooded her chest. Emma pulled into the gravel driveway, the crunch of tires on stones barely audible over the storm. The house was old, its Victorian architecture casting eerie shadows in the dim light of the porch lantern.

Emma hesitated. Something about the house felt... off. But the storm was relentless, and her phone was dead. She had no choice.

Knocking on the heavy oak door, she was greeted by silence. She tried again, louder this time. Just as she was about to give up, the door creaked open on its own.

“Hello?” she called, her voice echoing through the cavernous interior.

The air inside was cold and damp, carrying the scent of decayed wood and mildew. The entryway was grand but neglected, with peeling wallpaper and a chandelier hanging precariously from the ceiling. She stepped inside cautiously, her footsteps muffled by the threadbare rug.

“Is anyone here?” she tried again.

A whisper.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it made her freeze in place.

“Leave...”

Emma spun around, but the entryway was empty. She convinced herself it was just the wind and moved further into the house. She needed a phone, or at least some shelter until the storm passed.

The sitting room was furnished in dusty antiques: a cracked mirror above the fireplace, an ornate clock stopped at 3:15, and a tattered armchair facing the window. Lightning illuminated the room, casting fleeting, jagged shadows across the walls.

Then she saw it.

In the mirror’s reflection, a figure stood behind her—a woman in a dark dress, her face obscured by a veil. Emma whirled around, but the room was empty.

Her breathing quickened. “Hello? Who’s there?”

No answer.

The whisper came again, louder this time. “Leave... now.”

Emma backed toward the hallway, her heart pounding. The storm outside raged on, making escape impossible. She decided to explore further, hoping to find something—anything—that would help.

The corridor was long and narrow, lined with doors. Most were ajar, revealing empty bedrooms and storage rooms filled with cobweb-covered furniture. But one door at the far end was locked.

Emma felt an inexplicable pull toward it. Her rational mind screamed to leave it alone, but her curiosity won out. She jiggled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

As she leaned closer, she heard faint voices behind the door. They were indistinct at first, like a murmur, but soon they grew clearer—children’s voices, laughing and singing.

Emma’s blood ran cold. There were no children here.

She stepped back, her pulse hammering in her ears. Suddenly, the laughter stopped, replaced by a sharp knock on the other side of the door.

She bolted down the hallway, her footsteps echoing loudly.

In her panic, Emma stumbled into the kitchen, which was in no better shape than the rest of the house. Rusted utensils hung from the walls, and the faint smell of rot emanated from the sink.

Then she saw the door to the basement.

It was slightly ajar, revealing a staircase that descended into pitch darkness.

“No way,” she muttered, shaking her head.

But as she turned to leave, the basement door slammed shut behind her, as though pushed by unseen hands. The sound made her jump, and the whisper returned, closer than ever.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Emma fumbled with the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. A cold draft swept through the room, chilling her to the bone. She had no choice but to descend.

The stairs creaked under her weight as she made her way down, the beam of her flashlight barely penetrating the darkness. The basement was vast, filled with old trunks, shattered furniture, and piles of unidentifiable debris.

In the corner, she saw something that made her heart stop—a circle of candles, long extinguished, surrounding a crude symbol carved into the concrete floor.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping into a cacophony of voices.

“Help us...”“Don’t trust her...”“Run...”

Emma backed away from the circle, but her foot caught on something, and she fell. When she turned, she saw a skeleton partially buried under the debris. The skull grinned at her mockingly, its empty sockets seeming to follow her.

Panic surged as the whispers reached a fever pitch. The air grew heavy, and a figure emerged from the shadows—a woman in a black dress, her veil now lifted to reveal a gaunt, decayed face with hollow eyes that seemed to bore into Emma’s soul.

The woman raised a hand, and Emma felt herself lifted off the ground, as though gripped by invisible claws.

“Please!” Emma screamed, struggling against the unseen force.

The woman’s voice was a guttural growl. “You shouldn’t have come here. You belong to us now.”

Desperation fuelled Emma’s strength. She reached into her pocket, pulling out the lighter she always carried. Flicking it on, she set the edge of her scarf ablaze and flung it at the figure.

The fire caught on the dry, dusty air, spreading rapidly. The woman shrieked, her form dissipating into smoke as the flames consumed the basement.

The grip on Emma vanished, and she fell to the floor, coughing as the thick smoke filled her lungs.

Somehow, she found her way back to the stairs and stumbled into the stormy night. The house behind her was fully ablaze, the flames licking at the sky like angry spirits finally set free.

She ran until her legs gave out, collapsing on the side of the road.

Emma was found by a passing truck driver the next morning, dishevelled and shaking. She tried to explain what had happened, but her story sounded insane even to her own ears.

When authorities investigated the house, they found nothing but ashes and charred wood. There was no trace of the skeleton, the candles, or the woman in black.

Emma moved away from Millcreek soon after, trying to put the experience behind her. But on quiet nights, when the wind howled through the trees, she swore she could still hear the whispers.

“You shouldn’t have come here...”

The Whispering House is the property of the Author and must not be plagiarised. Legal action will be taken against those who copy, download and/or use for monetization purposes.