The House That Whispers

The House That Whispers

By Khan

I first heard about the house from an old man in the pub. He had eyes like rusted nails and a voice like dry leaves blowing across a grave.

“Don’t go up that hill,” he warned. “House up there don’t sleep. It remembers.”

I laughed it off. I was in town for a writing retreat — one of those “disconnect to reconnect” places where your phone barely works, and inspiration is supposed to strike like lightning. The inn was cozy but boring. The hill, however, was intriguing.

They called it Hollow Hill. Locals avoided it. Said animals refused to graze there. Even birds wouldn’t fly over it.

Naturally, I had to see it for myself.

The path was overgrown, thick with tangled roots and broken branches. As I climbed, the air grew still. Not quiet — still. Like time was holding its breath.

At the top, behind a thicket of blackthorn trees, I saw it.

The house.

It was old, Victorian, and strangely elegant despite the decay. The roof sagged. The paint had peeled away in long gray strips. Windows like hollow eyes watched me approach.

I should’ve left. But I didn’t.

The front door was ajar.

As I stepped inside, the wooden floor moaned under my feet. Dust danced in beams of gray light that filtered through stained-glass panels. The house felt… alive. Not warm. Not inviting. Just watchful.

I wandered room to room, notebook in hand, thinking this would be the perfect setting for a haunted house story. Irony, right?

Then I heard it.

A whisper.

Faint. Soft. Like dry breath brushing past my ear.

“Daniel…”

I froze.

No one knew I was here. No one should have known my name.

I turned slowly. The hallway behind me was empty.

I told myself it was the wind, even though the air was still and heavy.

The whisper came again — closer this time.

“Daniel…”

I backed into what looked like a study. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books whose titles had faded to nothing. In the center, an antique desk sat crooked, a broken lamp on top.

On the desk lay a journal. My curiosity got the better of me.

Inside were pages and pages of names. Some crossed out. Some underlined. All written in the same tight, elegant script.

And there, at the bottom of the last page:

Daniel M. Carter.

My full name.

My blood ran cold.

I slammed the book shut and turned to leave — and stopped.

The hallway had changed.

What was once a narrow passage now stretched into darkness. The wallpaper was wet, oozing like flesh. And from the shadows, dozens of whispers rose like steam.

“Daniel…”

“Stay…”

“Write…”

“No one ever finishes…”

I ran.

The house shifted as I moved. Doors led to nowhere. Stairs looped endlessly. Every hallway was lined with mirrors that reflected things I hadn’t done — me standing at a grave, me screaming silently, me covered in blood.

Eventually, I found a door that opened to the outside. I bolted through it and didn’t stop running until I reached the bottom of the hill.

When I looked back, the house was gone.

I told myself I imagined it. That the house was just a weird hallucination brought on by stress and wine. I packed my things and left the next morning.

But when I got home, the whispers came with me.

They started faintly, at night. Then during the day. They know my name. They know my thoughts.

They demand stories.

Sometimes, I wake up with pages written in my notebook — things I don’t remember writing.

Stories that end with a name.

Always a real name.

Always someone I know.

And this morning, I found a new page in the journal I brought back.

It read:

Emily R. Carson

Jeremy P. Vale

YOU

The whispers are louder now. I don’t sleep.

They say if I stop writing, they’ll come out of the walls.

And if you’re reading this — maybe you’ve heard them too.

Maybe your name is next.