The Whispering Shadows

It began with a whisper.

Daniel Carter, a struggling author, rented the abandoned Blackwood Manor in hopes of finding inspiration for his next book. The manor, vacant for decades, sat isolated on the edge of Ravenshire, wrapped in fog and legend.

Locals whispered of the eerie events within its walls, but Daniel wrote them off as mere myth. He was always a disbeliever in the supernatural and thought that the spooky stories were mere fantasy of a town with a lot of superstition. The first evening was quiet. The room was crowded with dusty furniture and the smell of rot. Daniel used the study for his workspace, a large room lined with bookshelves stacked high with old books. The fireplace, which was cold and unlit, still carried the smell of burned wood. He was committed to spinning a masterpiece, a book that would finally gain him notice. But as midnight struck, a soft whisper floated through the hallways.

"Leave."

He stood still. The noise was far away, barely audible, a whisper against his ear. He brushed it off as the wind leaking through the openings and went back to work, pushing aside the discomfort twisting in his belly.

Days went by, and the whispers became louder. They crawled along in the dark, saying his name, inviting him to depart. Things shifted when he didn't observe them. The great chandelier swayed in the absence of breeze. Shadows elongated in an unnatural manner, creeping toward him when the lights would flicker.

At first, Daniel made sense of everything. The house was old, and it could be settling down. The wind could be strong at night. His mind must be playing tricks on him. But the sense of being watched never disappeared. Something invisible stayed in the corners, concealed within the creases of the dark rooms.

One night, while wandering through the manor, he found a secret room behind the bookshelf in the study.

Click, creak slowly, and the wall opened up, showing an area untouched by time. There was a tiny wooden crib swaying in the silence, the air full of dust motes that danced in the dim illumination. There was a faded photo on the nightstand. A woman with empty eyes cradled a baby in her arms. The reverse side of the photo carried one name: "Eleanor." That evening, the whispers turned to screams. Daniel awoke to the cries.

It wasn't the wind.

It wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. It was real, raw, and full of despair. The room was stiflingly cold. His breath created ectoplasmic wisps as he tracked the wails into the secret room. The crib was empty, but rocking hadn't stopped. Sorrow clotted the air, weighing against his chest like some intangible thing. He spun to leave—only to catch sight of her. A woman stood in the doorway, her face a sickly white, her eyes empty voids of blackness. Her mouth opened, releasing a pained shriek that sent shivers through his veins. Daniel did run, but the house turned around him. The halls went on forever. Doors that used to lead to refuge now opened onto strange, impossible rooms. Wherever he turned, there she was—whispering, screaming, grieving. The thought hit him like a bolt of lightning—Eleanor had lost her child, and now, she was lost to grief, suspended between realms. The manor held her captive, her sorrow its sustenance.

Desperation sent Daniel to the study. He grabbed his notebook and flipped through the pages. All his words were erased, substituted with one sentence scribbled over and over: "You should have left."

A cold hand clamped over his shoulder. He turned— The following morning, the people of the town saw something strange. Blackwood Manor, long abandoned and dead, had its front door wide open. Nobody was brave enough to go inside, but some claimed they heard faint scratching coming from inside, as if something or someone was attempting to get out.

Daniel Carter was never heard from or seen again. Yet, occasionally a whisper can be heard in the distance as the wind screams through the ruin during the night. "Leave."