The House That Whispers

No one had lived in the Hawthorne House for over forty years not since the Carter family vanished without a trace one cold November night. No signs of struggle, no open doors, just dinner half-eaten on the table, and silence thicker than fog.

Locals didn’t talk about it much. They crossed the street when walking past it. Even the birds never sat on its roof. The place had a way of watching… waiting.

So when Nora, a young historian, arrived in town determined to document abandoned homes, no one warned her about Hawthorne. Or maybe they did, but the warnings came in glances and shifting eyes things she was too focused to notice.

She stepped into the house on a rainy Thursday, the sky bleeding gray, her boots squelching into the damp carpet. The air was stale, but not empty. It was heavy, like breath held too long.

Her phone flickered. Then died.

She muttered, “Of course,” and took out her flashlight.

The furniture was still there. A rocking chair swayed ever so slightly, as though someone had just gotten up. There was a child’s drawing on the wall, scratched over in crayon. She paused. The scribbles had eyes.

Cobwebs danced with the light as she passed through the narrow hallway. The sound of dripping water echoed, though no leak could be found. The floor creaked, but not just beneath her like something beneath the floor was shifting, breathing, turning.

In the hallway, the wallpaper peeled in strips, revealing something strange beneath—not wood or concrete, but what looked like pale skin. She touched it, and it was warm.

That’s when she heard it.

A whisper.

Very faint. Like someone mouthing her name behind her ear but never breathing it out. She turned. Nothing.

Again. Closer.

Nooorraa…

She spun around, heart racing. There was no one there. But now the air felt tighter. Her flashlight dimmed, then flared back. On the wall behind her, the drawing had changed. The eyes were wider. The smile was gone.

She ran out of the hallway, her heart punching her ribs, but every door she opened led back to the same place. The same hallway. The same drawing. The same whisper.

Nora was rational. She didn’t believe in ghosts. But when she checked her wrist and saw bite marks, her logic began to rot. The skin was broken, raw. She hadn’t felt it happen.

Then the lights turned on.

All of them.

A voice crackled from the old radio on the shelf. No power. No batteries.

Still, it spoke.

"You shouldn’t have come."

The air grew colder. She could see her breath now, curling like smoke. Shadows gathered in corners, slow and deliberate. One by one, they blinked.

Yes they blinked.

The house wasn’t haunted. It was alive.

Each room was an organ. The creaking floorboards, its groans. The walls, its skin. The windows, its eyes. And the whispers—its voice.

She screamed when the staircase folded in on itself, becoming a spine. Something above the chandelier slithered, wet and massive. It dropped like a rope, then retracted with a hiss.

And then everything went dark.

When Nora awoke, she was outside. Mud on her face. Blood in her ears.

She crawled to the road, barely able to scream. A farmer found her and called for help. She survived.

But she never spoke again.

Not because of fear.

But because she said the house had taken her voice.

It speaks with it now.

At night, if you walk near Hawthorne House, you may hear a woman whispering from the shadows.

It isn’t a ghost.

It’s the house calling your name, using the voices of those it’s already eaten.

And if you answer…
you’ll never leav

Some doors don’t close behind you—they close inside you, locking away the part that dared to listen when silence spoke.

Thank you very much for reading!❤️