Whispers in the Walls

Whispers in the Walls

By Tariq Shah

The house had been abandoned for nearly forty years. Overgrown vines wrapped around its stone frame like fingers trying to choke the life out of it. To the villagers, it was cursed—a place where people vanished without a trace. But to Eliza Kane, it was just another story waiting to be unraveled.

She wasn’t just a journalist. She hunted darkness. Missing people. Strange disappearances. Whispers in forgotten corners of the world. And the Ashcroft House had everything she needed for her next story.

Her first night in the house was uneventful. Cold drafts crept through the shattered windows. The floorboards moaned beneath her feet like dying souls. But she’d heard worse. Seen worse.

It was on the second night that she heard the first whisper.

“Eliza…”

She froze. The voice was soft, almost kind. But it echoed strangely—like it came from inside the walls.

“Eliza… come find me…”

She searched every room with her flashlight, but found nothing. Just dust. Silence. Shadows. She blamed the wind.

But by the third night, the whispers grew bolder.

“I’m still here,” the voice said, dragging each word like a rusty knife.

This time, it wasn’t just one voice. It was many. Men. Women. Children. Some crying. Some laughing. Some begging for help.

She pressed her ear against the wall of the old nursery—and heard it. A heartbeat.

Not hers. Something else's.

Driven by both fear and obsession, Eliza pulled back the rotting wallpaper and began clawing at the wooden panels beneath. Nails broken, fingers raw—until her hand hit something cold.

Metal.

She uncovered a small door, hidden in the wall, sealed shut with rusted bolts. It wasn’t on any blueprint. It wasn’t mentioned in any article. No one had ever found it.

She opened it.

Inside was a narrow staircase spiraling down into complete blackness. The air was thick, damp, and smelled like old blood. But she descended anyway, one trembling step at a time.

The stairs led to a forgotten basement. Chains hung from the ceiling. Dust-covered journals lined old shelves. In the center of the room was a single wooden chair, and on it—something that made her stomach turn.

A doll.

But not just any doll. This one looked… real. Its glass eyes were mismatched. Its mouth stitched shut with human hair. And around its neck was a small tag that read: "Eliza Kane - Age 7."

She staggered back.

How did it know her name?

How did it know her childhood?

The whispers returned, louder now, screaming her name from every corner of the room.

“You came back,” one of them growled.

“Finish what you started,” said another.

She grabbed one of the journals and flipped through it. The pages were filled with drawings of children. Names. Ages. And one name appeared again and again: Eliza Kane.

It didn’t make sense. She’d never been here before.

But then—a memory.

A flash.

A red dress. A man with no eyes. A scream. A small hand covering her mouth.

She had been here. Long ago.

She had escaped.

And now the house remembered.

“Eliza… stay… forever…”

Suddenly, the basement door slammed shut above her. The lights flickered and died. She ran back to the staircase, banging, screaming—but it was too late.

The whispers turned into laughter.

Then silence.


---

One Month Later

The house stood silent once more. Peaceful. Waiting.

A young couple drove past and paused.

“Looks spooky,” the man said. “Dare you to go inside.”

The woman smiled. “Only if you come too.”

They parked and walked up the path.

And from somewhere deep within the walls, a voice whispered:

“Eliza isn’t lonely anymore.”

Author's Note:

Whispers in the Walls was born from a fascination with the things we cannot see—the secrets hidden in old houses, the memories embedded in creaking floorboards, and the voices that echo long after they’re gone. This story blends psychological tension with elements of the supernatural, aiming to explore how fear often comes not from what’s outside, but from what we’ve buried within ourselves.

As you read, I invite you to listen closely—not just to the story, but to the whispers around you. Sometimes, silence says the most.

Thank you for reading,
Tariq Shah