The Whispering Shadows

The old mansion at the edge of town had been abandoned for decades. Overgrown vines wrapped around its towering walls like dark fingers, and shattered windows revealed glimpses of its ruined past. No one dared to step inside.

They said the house was cursed. That those who entered never came back the same. But Rohan, a journalist obsessed with the unknown, didn’t believe in ghost stories. He believed in facts.

Armed with a flashlight and his camera, he pushed open the creaking iron gate and stepped forward. The wind howled, rustling the dead leaves on the ground. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, a shiver ran down his spine. He hesitated but only for a second.

The door groaned as it opened, revealing a dark hallway filled with dust and forgotten memories. The smell of decay was strong, as if the air itself had been trapped for centuries.

Rohan took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The floorboards creaked under his weight as he moved forward. His flashlight revealed old paintings on the walls, their faces scratched out, as if someone—or something—had tried to erase them. Torn curtains swayed despite the still air.

As he walked further, he heard it.

A whisper.

Soft, distant, but unmistakable.

Leave now.

Rohan froze. He turned his flashlight towards the sound, but there was nothing there—only the darkened hallway stretching ahead. He shook off the unease. Old houses made strange noises. That’s all it was.

He entered what seemed to be the living room. A massive chandelier, now covered in dust, hung from the ceiling. The furniture was draped in white sheets, like forgotten ghosts waiting to be awakened. In the center of the room stood a grand mirror, its surface cracked, reflecting the broken beauty of the house.

Something about it made his stomach churn.

As he stepped closer, his reflection stared back at him but something was off.

His movements were slower, lagging behind. Then, the reflection did something chilling.

It smiled.

Rohan stumbled back, heart pounding. This had to be a trick—his mind playing games with him. But before he could move, the whisper returned.

Louder.

Closer.

You shouldn’t have come.

A sudden gust of wind slammed the door shut. The flashlight flickered. Shadows crawled across the walls, stretching, twisting. The air grew heavy, pressing against his chest.

Then footsteps.

Not his own.

Cold fear gripped him as he turned towards the hallway. A figure stood there.

Tall. Motionless. Its face hidden in the darkness.

Rohan’s breath hitched. His body screamed for him to run, but his feet felt rooted to the spot. The figure took a step forward, and with it came a deep, guttural whisper.

You’re mine now.
The lights went out.

Darkness swallowed the room. Rohan fumbled with his flashlight, his fingers shaking. When the beam flickered back on, the figure was gone.

But the whispers remained.

A soft, eerie laughter echoed around him. The shadows slithered, crawling up the walls, closing in.

He turned and ran.

Down the hallway. Past the paintings with missing faces. Past the broken windows. His heart pounded as he reached the front door. He grabbed the handle

It wouldn’t budge.

A chill crept up his spine as he heard breathing behind him. Slow. Raspy.

He didn’t want to turn. He knew he shouldn’t.

But he did.

The figure was inches away. A twisted smile stretched across its hollow face, its eyes dark voids that sucked the light from the room.

It raised a hand. Touched his chest.

Ice spread through Rohan’s veins. His breath hitched as pain shot through his body, like thousands of needles piercing his skin. He gasped, collapsing to his knees. The whispers turned into screams is own.

His vision blurred. The world around him twisted.

Then silence.

The next morning, the house stood as it always had. Silent. Watching.

The town remained unaware of the journalist who had stepped inside.

Rohan was never seen again.

But sometimes, on quiet nights, people swore they heard whispers coming from the mansion.

Soft. Beckoning.

*"Come inside.

and if you listen closely enough, you might hear something else avoice.

A desperate, terrified voice trapped within the walls.

Begging to be set free.