The whispers in the attic

It was a quiet night when Sarah moved into the old house on Elm Street. The kind of place that looked more like a relic than a home, with ivy creeping up the stone walls and windows that hadn’t seen a good scrub in years. The house was large, far too big for her alone, but she had her reasons for choosing it. A fresh start, she told herself. A new chapter away from the noise of the city.

The first few days were peaceful, filled with unpacking and settling in. But by the third night, she began to notice something strange. It started softly, a faint murmur that she initially brushed off as the creaks and groans of an old house settling. But by the fourth night, the whispers grew louder, more distinct. They were coming from above.

In the dead of night, when Sarah lay wide-eyed in bed, the whispers would start—soft, hushed voices, just out of reach of comprehension. They seemed to echo from the attic, which she had yet to explore. She had meant to check it out, but the thought of climbing into the dusty, forgotten space gave her a sense of unease. So, she ignored it, telling herself it was just the wind playing tricks.

But the whispers persisted, growing louder each night, until Sarah could no longer dismiss them as her imagination. She decided to investigate.

The attic door was old and heavy, creaking as she pulled it open. A gust of cold air hit her face, making her shiver. The narrow staircase seemed to stretch up into the darkness, the faint smell of mildew and age filling her nose. Hesitantly, Sarah climbed the stairs, each step making the wood groan beneath her weight. The whispers were now clearer, almost pleading, like voices trapped behind a wall.

At the top of the stairs, Sarah hesitated. The attic was dimly lit by a single, dusty window, its glass cracked. Shelves of forgotten items lined the walls—old trunks, yellowed newspapers, and broken furniture. The air was thick with dust, and a sense of foreboding hung in the silence. The whispers, now clearer than ever, seemed to come from the far corner of the attic, near a large, old wardrobe.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah stepped forward. The floor creaked beneath her feet as she moved closer to the wardrobe. The whispers grew louder, more urgent, though still incomprehensible. Her heart raced, but her feet carried her forward.

Reaching the wardrobe, Sarah paused. There was something strange about it. The wood seemed newer than the rest of the items in the attic, and the hinges gleamed as though they had been recently oiled. A sense of dread settled over her as she reached for the handle. It was cold, unnaturally so, but she gripped it and pulled.

The wardrobe door swung open with a groan. Inside was nothing but empty space, but as Sarah peered deeper into the darkness, she saw something odd—an old, tattered piece of fabric, draped over the back wall. Without thinking, she reached in and tugged at the fabric. It unraveled with ease, revealing something she wasn’t prepared for.

Behind the fabric was a narrow door—hidden and almost invisible against the wall. It was small, barely wide enough for a person to fit through. But it was the whispers that drew her in. They were coming from behind this door, unmistakably clearer now. They weren’t just whispers; they were words.

"Help... get us out..."

The voice was weak, fragile, like a breath that had been trapped for far too long. Sarah’s heart raced, her breath shallow. Should she open the door? Could she even open it?

Her curiosity won out. With trembling hands, she grasped the handle. It was cold, unnervingly so. She twisted it, and the door creaked open, revealing a small, dark room beyond. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, and there, in the corner, was an old rocking chair. It moved gently, as if someone were sitting in it.

But there was no one there.

Sarah’s blood ran cold as the whispers became clearer, now all around her. "You shouldn’t have opened it..."

Her instincts screamed at her to run, but her body wouldn’t listen. She took one step forward, then another, the floorboards creaking beneath her. The chair continued to rock, as if someone was gently swaying in it, and a voice—no longer a whisper but a clear, trembling plea—echoed through the room:

"Get out... before it’s too late."

The temperature dropped in an instant, and Sarah’s breath turned to mist in the air. Panic surged through her chest as she backed away, but as she turned to leave, the door slammed shut behind her. The whispers, now a cacophony of desperate cries, echoed through the room, pulling her into the darkness.

It was the last thing Sarah ever heard. The house on Elm Street was never quiet again.