Midnight Whispers

**Midnight Whispers**

The small town of Ashford was known for its quiet streets and friendly people. But deep within the forest that bordered the town, an old house sat in ruins—forgotten by time, yet never truly abandoned. The locals called it the Whispering House, for those who wandered too close on certain nights claimed to hear voices drifting through the trees, calling their names in hushed tones.

No one knew who built the house, or why it had been left to decay. But stories of those who entered and never returned had been passed down for generations.

One rainy evening, Olivia, a young journalist with a taste for the supernatural, decided to investigate. Armed with only her camera and a flashlight, she made her way through the thick forest until she reached the house. It stood in eerie silence, its windows shattered, its wooden walls rotting. The moment she stepped inside, the air grew heavy, as if the house itself was breathing.

She raised her flashlight, sweeping the beam across the room. Dust swirled in the air. Old furniture sat covered in sheets, untouched for decades. A single hallway stretched ahead, leading into darkness.

Then, she heard it.

A whisper. Faint, almost indistinguishable from the wind.

Her pulse quickened. "Hello?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper.

No answer.

She moved forward, her footsteps echoing against the creaking floorboards. The deeper she went, the colder it became. A faint humming sound filled the air, like a lullaby sung in the dark.

Then she saw it—a door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar. A soft golden light spilled from within.

With a deep breath, Olivia pushed it open. Inside, the room was strangely intact, as if untouched by time. A small table sat in the center, and on it, a single journal lay open. She picked it up, flipping through pages filled with frantic handwriting.

*They whisper at night. They call my name. I should not have listened.*

Olivia’s breath hitched. The final page was different—words scrawled over and over in red ink:

**DON’T TURN AROUND.**

Her blood ran cold.

A breath ghosted against her neck.

With every muscle in her body screaming, she forced herself to stay still. But the whispers grew louder, wrapping around her like invisible hands. The air turned icy, and the light in the room flickered.

She couldn’t help it—she turned.

The last thing she saw was a pair of hollow, glowing eyes staring back at her before the darkness swallowed her whole.

The next morning, the townspeople found Olivia’s camera lying at the edge of the forest, its battery drained. The last photo showed an empty room with a single line carved into the wall:

**SHE HEARD THE WHISPERS. NOW SHE SPEAKS WITH US.**

No trace of Olivia was ever found, but sometimes, on quiet nights, the people of Ashford swear they hear her voice—whispering from the trees, calling their names, waiting for someone else to listen.