Whispers

It started with the attic.

Eleanor had lived in her grandmother’s Victorian house for three months before she heard the whispering. At first, she blamed the wind slipping through the cracks, or maybe her imagination — worn thin by sleepless nights and a job that drained her soul.

But by the seventh night, the whispers were clear.

Soft. Insistent. Repeating her name.

“Eleanor…”

She would wake up at 3:11 AM exactly. Every night. No matter what time she fell asleep. And the voice was always there. Genderless. Familiar, but not quite.

She told herself it was stress.

Then she found the box.

It was tucked in the attic, beneath the floorboards, behind an old trunk that hadn't been touched in decades. The box was made of dark, warped wood and sealed shut with rusted nails.

The voice grew louder the moment she found it.

“Don’t open it,” it said.

But it said it too late.

Inside the box were dozens of letters. All addressed to “My Dearest Eleanor.” All dated 1947.

But the handwriting… was hers.

She stared at the loopy cursive, the way the Ls curled just like when she signed birthday cards, the way the E leaned slightly left — identical to her own.

Impossible.

She flipped through them.

The letters spoke of a hidden room in the house. Of secrets kept from the world. Of a child born in shadows. And most disturbing of all, they spoke of “The Mirror.”

“The Mirror remembers,” one letter read. “It sees what we forget. And it never forgives.”

Eleanor dropped the letter, heart racing. Her reflection in the attic window shifted slightly. Not the way shadows move — more like it was breathing.

She turned.

Nothing.

She ran downstairs, clutching one of the letters, and called her mother.

"Did Grandma ever mention a mirror?" Eleanor asked, trying to steady her voice.

Her mother hesitated. “She had one. In her study. She made me cover it when I was little. Said it showed things that shouldn’t be seen.”

“Where is it now?”

Her mother sighed. “Still in the house. Probably under a sheet.”

Eleanor didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she found the study. She hadn’t spent much time in there — it had always felt cold, wrong. In the far corner, beneath a heavy gray sheet, was something tall and narrow.

She pulled the cover off.

The mirror was ancient. The glass was cloudy, speckled with age, the frame carved with strange symbols.

But her reflection stared back, unchanged.

Then it blinked.

She didn’t.

Her reflection raised its hand first. It smiled — but not kindly.

And then, it spoke.

“You’re ready now.”

Eleanor stumbled back. The letters in her hand flew into the air, scattering across the floor. The mirror shimmered, and her reflection stepped out.

Not like a ghost — like a twin.

Same face. Same eyes. But older somehow. Tired. Cold.

“Who are you?” Eleanor whispered.

“I’m who you were,” the reflection said. “And who you’ll be again. The house remembers. The mirror keeps what time forgets.”

Eleanor backed away, but the room warped. The door vanished. The walls stretched. Her twin stepped closer.

“This has happened before,” it said. “You wrote the letters. You found the mirror. You asked for the truth.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did. And now the house has answered.”

The lights flickered. Eleanor’s breath frosted. The mirror glowed.

“You have one choice,” the twin said. “Stay and forget — or leave and remember everything.”

“What happens if I stay?”

“You’ll wake up tomorrow and believe it was all a dream. You’ll live in this house until it claims you again.”

“And if I leave?”

The twin tilted its head. “You’ll never be the same. The truth will haunt you. But you’ll break the cycle.”

Eleanor looked at the mirror. The letters whispered around her like falling leaves.

She stepped forward — and chose.

The next morning, the house was empty.

The mirror was gone. So were the letters. And Eleanor?

No one could say.

But on certain nights, if you pass the house on Hollow Street and the wind is just right, you might hear a whisper from the attic.

Not a ghost.

A memory.

Calling your name.