The Whispering House
The Whispering House
It was almost midnight when Adeel’s car broke down on the deserted road. The storm overhead growled, and rain poured like shattered glass from the sky. He cursed under his breath, looking around for any sign of shelter. In the distance, beyond a line of twisted trees, a faint light glimmered. With no better option, he grabbed his bag and walked toward it. As he drew closer, the light revealed itself to be from a grand but decaying mansion. Its windows were fractured, its roof sagged like tired shoulders, and vines crawled up its walls like skeletal fingers. Still, the glow from a single upper-floor window felt like an invitation—or a warning. Pushing the heavy, groaning gate open, Adeel stepped inside. The air smelled of damp wood and something metallic… almost like blood. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the marble floor, the flicker of a candle catching his eye. “Hello?” he called. No answer. A narrow staircase curled upward, and against his better judgment, he climbed it. The candlelight came from a room at the end of a hallway lined with portraits. Each painting depicted a person with unnaturally pale skin and dark, hollow eyes. As Adeel walked past, he swore their eyes followed him. He reached the lit room and found a single candle on a table. Beside it lay an old diary. The leather cover was cracked, and a rusty clasp hung broken. Rain rattled the cracked window, and lightning lit the room for a moment—long enough for Adeel to see something in the corner. A shadow. Tall. Still. Watching. When the next flash came, it was gone. Adeel’s hands trembled as he opened the diary. The first page was dated 1893 and written in flowing, delicate handwriting: “We must not listen to the whispers after midnight. They promise love, but they bring only death.” The pages became more frantic as the years passed—scribbles, dark stains, and drawings of twisted faces. One entry stood out, dated the night before the writing stopped: “They are inside now. They have taken Mother. I hear them at my door, whispering my name. If anyone finds this, do not answer them.” A low voice broke the silence. “Adeel…” He froze. The voice was coming from the hallway. His mind screamed to run, but his legs felt heavy. The whisper came again, closer, curling into his ears like smoke. “Adeel… help me…” It sounded like his younger sister’s voice—impossible, because she was miles away. Against every warning in the diary, he called out: “Who’s there?” The air grew colder. The candle guttered, shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls. A shape emerged from the darkness: tall, faceless, with limbs too long for its body. Where a face should have been, a gaping mouth whispered in his sister’s voice again. “Come closer…” Adeel stumbled backward, but the hallway behind him had changed. It was longer, darker, the portraits now showing twisted, screaming faces. The whispering multiplied, filling the air until it was unbearable—hundreds of voices calling his name. He turned and ran. Every door he passed led to the same hallway again. The mansion had become a maze, alive and bending. He could feel something following him, its breath brushing the back of his neck. Finally, he burst into the main hall. The front door was wide open, though he didn’t remember leaving it that way. Rain poured outside, but something about the darkness beyond felt wrong—thicker than night, shifting like liquid. The whispers stopped. The silence was worse. Adeel took one step toward the exit, and the darkness outside moved. Two pale hands reached out from it, grasping the doorframe. A face—no, not a face, just a mouth—emerged, smiling too wide. “You came to me,” it said. The floor beneath Adeel cracked. A dozen hands shot out from the wood, grabbing his ankles, his wrists, pulling him down. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the mansion itself. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the candle upstairs, still burning. When the storm passed, the mansion stood silent. In the upper-floor room, the diary’s last page had changed. The new writing was shaky, fresh: “They have taken Adeel. If you hear your name… do not answer them.”
