The Whispering Room

In a quiet village tucked between foggy hills, there lived a little girl named Elara. She was eight years old, a little bit too brave for her own good, and curious. On the outskirts of town, her family had just moved into a stone cottage that had been vacant for as long as anyone could remember. The only thing the villagers ever said about the house was that it was "old" and "strange." However, it enchanted Elara. It had creaky wooden floors, dusty chandeliers, and long, dark hallways that seemed to whisper secrets when the wind blew.

One evening, as the sun melted into a red and purple sky, Elara was exploring the upstairs hallway when she noticed a small door at the end, almost hidden behind a faded curtain. It had a rusty handle, was half her height, and had deep scratches all over the wood. She tried to pull it open. Inside was a narrow room, no bigger than a closet, with peeling wallpaper and a single cracked window. But what caught her eye was the old wooden rocking chair in the middle—and the fact that it was rocking on its own.

“Elara…” someone whispered.

She froze. The voice was thin, soft, and sounded like a child’s.

“Elara, come play with me…”

She ran.

That night, she told her parents about the room. Her mother smiled nervously and said, “It’s just the wind, sweetie. This house makes funny noises.”

But Elara knew what she’d heard.

The next day, despite her fear, curiosity dragged her back to the little door. The room was just as she left it—quiet, except for the soft creaking of the rocking chair.

“Elara,” the voice whispered again. “I’m so lonely…”

Elara hesitated. “Who are you?” She echoed the whisper. The cold air got colder. The shadows in the room deepened, and from behind the chair, a figure slowly emerged—a girl about Elara’s age, wearing a tattered white dress. Her hair hung over her face, and her skin was pale as snow.

“I used to live here,” the girl said. “But they forgot me. Everyone forgets…”

Elara stepped back, her heart pounding.

“Don’t go,” the ghostly girl pleaded. “Stay. You can play forever.”

That night, Elara had terrible dreams—of being trapped in the little room, the door vanishing behind her, the rocking chair creaking endlessly. She woke up screaming.

Her parents, now alarmed, decided to seal the door. Her father nailed it shut, and they tried to put it all behind them.

But things only got worse.

Elara began to hear scratching behind the walls. She saw shadows move where there was no light. Toys rearranged themselves. Her name echoed in the silence.

One night, the whispers came again—not from the room, but from inside her closet.

“Elara… the door doesn’t matter. I’m already here…”

Her parents thought she was losing her mind. They took her to doctors, but nothing helped. The more they tried to ignore it, the stronger the presence became.

Then, one stormy night, Elara vanished.

The front door was still locked. Her room was untouched—except the little door at the end of the hall was open again, the boards ripped apart from the inside.

Nobody dared enter the room when the villagers arrived to assist. They found a single thing inside: the wooden rocking chair, still gently creaking, and a child's voice echoing in the empty air.

“Elara… you stayed…”

After that, the house was abandoned again. No one moved in. The little door remained sealed with iron nails and salt, but still, some nights, if you walk by the cottage, you might hear a child giggling behind the walls.

And if you’re very quiet… you might hear her whisper your name.