The Whispering Farmhouse

The Inheritance
I inherited the farmhouse from an uncle I barely knew. My mother never talked about her older brother, and when she did, her face would tighten like she’d bitten into something sour.

“He lived alone for a reason,” she once said. That was all.

So when a dusty lawyer’s letter arrived informing me I now owned “the Lancaster Farm, Hillvale County,” I was shocked. Even more surprising was the clause: "The property must be inspected in person within one month of this notice or it will revert to the state."

At the time, I was broke, recently laid off, and desperate. So I packed my car, left the city behind, and drove four hours into forgotten Pennsylvania countryside.

I should have turned back the moment I saw the crows.

Arrival
The farmhouse stood at the edge of a forest, surrounded by fields that had long turned wild. The house itself leaned slightly, as though the ground beneath it were sighing. Every window was dark, and the roof had caved in at one corner.

A rusted gate creaked when I pushed it open. As I walked toward the porch, I noticed an old wind chime hanging near the door—made of animal bones, gently clicking in the wind.

That should have been the second sign.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of rot and old books. Furniture lay shrouded in white sheets. Dust floated in sunbeams like tiny spirits.

I found a journal on the kitchen table. My uncle’s.

“Don’t stay past sundown,” the first page read in jagged writing.
“The house wakes up then.”

The Whispers Begin
That first day, I explored. The place was strange, but not terrifying—yet.

I found odd things. Carvings in the floorboards: circles with eyes scratched into them. Strings of salt tied above every window. Mirrors covered with black cloth.

The attic was padlocked shut. I left it alone.

At dusk, as I was unpacking in the bedroom, I heard a whisper. Faint, but clear.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I froze. The voice came from the hallway.

I grabbed my flashlight, stepped out, and called, “Hello?”

Nothing.

I convinced myself it was the wind, or my imagination.

But that night, as I lay in bed, the whispers returned.

“Wake up.”
“Look outside.”
“He’s still there.”

I bolted upright. The room was empty. But when I turned to the window, I saw a man standing at the edge of the field.

Motionless. Facing the house.

Watching.

The Locked Door
The next morning, I went outside. The man was gone, but footprints led from the field to the porch—and stopped at the front door.

No return prints.

I tried calling the lawyer. No signal.

I decided to check the attic.

It took me an hour to find the right key. The door groaned open, revealing an old room with a rocking chair, a shattered mirror, and dozens of tape recorders.

One still had a tape in it. I pressed play.

“They’re not voices in your head,” my uncle’s voice crackled. “They’re in the walls. They want out. They copy your thoughts. They take your face.”

My skin crawled.

“Don’t listen to them,” the tape ended. “Don’t believe what you see after dark.”

Night Three
I tried to leave that day. Packed my bags. Tried starting the car.

Dead battery.

I hadn’t left the headlights on. The battery had been ripped out.

As the sun dipped behind the forest, the house began to whisper again.

But this time, the whispers were my voice.

“I deserve this.”
“Let them in.”
“He’s behind you.”

I screamed and turned—no one was there. But in the hallway mirror, I saw my reflection smiling.

And I wasn’t.

I covered every mirror. Locked every door. Sat in the middle of the living room holding the flashlight like a weapon.

Around midnight, I heard something heavy dragging across the attic floor.

Something breathing just above me.

The Face in the Field
The next morning, I walked out to the field. Something pulled me there, like a thread around my spine.

That’s when I saw it: a hole in the earth. Perfectly round. As if something had dug its way up.

Around the hole were faces carved into the dirt. Dozens of them. All screaming.

One looked like my uncle.

Another—like me.

I stumbled back and ran inside.

I locked the door.

And then someone knocked from the other side.

Three times.

Possession
That night, I found another tape recorder on my pillow.

It played by itself.

“You can’t leave. You’ve been marked.”

The whispers came louder, more confident.

And then I saw myself—standing in the hallway, grinning, head tilted unnaturally sideways.

My double spoke:

“It’s your turn now.”

I slammed the door and barricaded it.

At 3:33 AM, the wind chime stopped ringing.

That’s when the walls started bleeding.

The symbols carved into the floor began to glow.

Whispers turned to screams.

Escape
At dawn, something changed.

The house went silent.

I took my chance.

I ran. Through the woods. No road. No phone. Just trees. For what felt like hours.

Eventually, I reached a gas station. Collapsed on the floor.

The clerk called the police. They drove me back.

But the house?

Gone.

Just grass. And a wind chime, swinging from a dead tree.

Now
It’s been six months.

I’m back in the city. Seeing a therapist. Trying to convince myself I imagined it all.

But sometimes, when the room is quiet…

I hear whispers.

And at night, in the mirror…

My reflection sometimes blinks before I do.

The Whispering Farmhouse
Some houses aren't haunted by spirits... they're alive.