The Whispering House

The house on Grayer Street had been vacant for six years. A two-story colonial with sagging shutters, cracked siding, and ivy crawling up its face like veins on old skin—it stood like a forgotten relic among modern homes. No one mowed the lawn. No one asked why.

Locals called it "the whispering house."

Julia Simmons didn’t believe in ghost stories. She was practical, logical—qualities that had served her well as a newly licensed real estate agent in the slow, crumbling town of Dryfield.

So when the Grayer listing landed on her desk, she didn’t hesitate. Bank-owned foreclosure. Dirt cheap. Sitting unclaimed. To her, it was an opportunity.

She pulled into the gravel drive just after nine in the morning. The sky was cloudless, the sun already hot. Still, the house cast a strange shadow—too long, too dark for the time of day.

She unlocked the door. It stuck, groaned, then gave way with a sigh. Inside, the smell hit her—damp wood, mildew, and something faintly metallic. The air was warm but heavy, as though it hadn’t moved in years.

"Let’s get this over with," she muttered, snapping on her phone flashlight.

The interior looked worse than the pictures. Peeling wallpaper curled like old scabs. The wooden floorboards sagged under her steps. Every sound echoed too long.

She started taking listing photos, moving room to room. The living room. The kitchen. The dining room where an ancient chandelier hung askew like a broken neck.

Then, while photographing the hallway, she heard it.

A whisper.

So soft, she wasn’t sure it had happened at all. It came from upstairs, from behind the closed bedroom door.

She froze. The house was empty. She was sure of it.

Then she heard it again: “Go.”

This time, clearer. A whisper, but not hers. Not imagined.

She bolted, almost tripping down the steps. Once outside, she laughed nervously, hand shaking as she started her car. Stress, she told herself. Low blood sugar. She skipped breakfast.

Two days later, she returned—this time with Peter Lang, a divorced contractor looking to flip old homes.

“It’s got good bones,” Peter said as they walked through the property. “Creepy, sure. But I’ve seen worse.”

Julia kept close behind him. “You’d be surprised how fast creepy sells these days.”

As they toured the upstairs, Peter stopped outside the master bedroom.

"You hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?"

He tilted his head. “Whispering. Like someone talking behind the wall.”

Julia didn’t respond.

“You alright?” he asked, noticing her pale face.

She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, just… allergies.”

That night, Julia dreamed of the house. But it wasn’t abandoned. The walls were whole, the lights warm. She walked through it as if she belonged—until she passed the hallway mirror. Her reflection didn't follow.

Instead, she saw Peter in the mirror, mouthing something she couldn’t hear.

She woke up gasping, her hands shaking.

Peter called the next day.

“Simmons. Weird thing—I can’t stop thinking about that house. Feels like I’ve seen it before, y’know? Like in a dream.”

Julia said nothing.

“I want to go back. Alone. Just to do a more thorough inspection.”

He didn’t return her texts after that.

His car was found parked in front of the Grayer house the next morning. Doors locked. Keys in the ignition. No Peter.

Police searched the house thoroughly. No blood, no signs of a struggle. Nothing.

They questioned Julia, of course. She told them the truth—at least most of it.

After that, she stopped showing houses. The whispers didn’t stop. She heard them in her apartment. In her dreams. Sometimes in the reflection of windows.

On the fourth night, she returned to the Grayer house alone.

The door was unlocked.

Inside, she moved through the halls like a sleepwalker. The air was thicker now, humid and slow, like breathing through water.

Then she heard it.

“Julia.”

The voice came from upstairs. From the attic.

She ascended the steps, one creaking stair at a time. At the top, a door she hadn’t noticed before stood ajar. The attic.

She opened it.

The room was dark. Dust floated like ash in the beam of her flashlight. In the corner stood a tall mirror—cracked, discolored, covered in smudges.

She stepped closer.

Her reflection was wrong.

It lagged.

Then it changed.

Not her anymore—but Peter. His face pale, his eyes hollow, his mouth moving in frantic silence. Behind him, dark shapes writhed. Human and not. Mouths where eyes should be. Too many hands.

“Help me,” he mouthed.

Julia backed away, horrified. But her feet wouldn’t move fast enough.

The attic door slammed shut behind her.

She screamed, pounding on it until her fists bled.

They found her the next morning—curled on the floor in a state of shock. She wouldn’t speak.

Later, in the hospital, she whispered only two words:

“He’s trapped.”

But when they searched the attic again, the mirror was gone.

She quit real estate. Moved two towns over. Changed her name.

The house still stands. The listing pulled, the lot fenced off. No one touches it now.

But sometimes—on a quiet night—you can still hear it, if you stand close enough to the front porch.

A whisper.

A name.

Yours.