The Whispering Walls”

The Whispering Walls
Some houses don’t want to be sold. They want to feed. Maya Singh had dealt with plenty of old properties in her real estate career, but Whittaker Mansion was different. The house had been abandoned for decades. The townspeople never spoke of it directly—just shook their heads and crossed themselves when someone mentioned the name. Most said it was cursed. A few said it was alive. Maya, ever the skeptic, chalked it up to small-town superstition. She needed a big sale, and this house promised a hefty commission. One last deal before promotion. She arrived just before dusk. Whittaker Mansion stood at the edge of the forest like a forgotten tomb—three stories of rotting wood, shattered windows, and a sagging roof. The iron gate creaked open before she even touched it. She paused. The wind had picked up. The trees behind the house swayed as if whispering warnings. Maya ignored the chill in her spine and stepped forward. The front door opened with an unnatural ease, groaning like something waking up. As she crossed the threshold, her phone buzzed and died instantly, even though it had full battery moments earlier. The temperature dropped. A rotten, metallic smell hit her nostrils—like blood and wet wood. Inside, the house was darker than it should’ve been. The windows, though shattered, let in no light. Her flashlight flickered as she walked past long-abandoned furniture and dust-covered portraits. The eyes in the paintings seemed to move. She told herself it was just nerves. In the master bedroom, she began taking photos to upload later. The first few images looked normal. Then something whispered her name. “Maya...” She turned instantly. No one. The room was still. Her phone glitched again. All her photos vanished. One single image replaced them: a distorted photo of her own face—mouth stretched unnaturally wide in a silent scream, eyes black and lifeless. She tried to leave, but the hallway behind her had changed. Longer. Colder. The air thicker. She walked faster, then ran, but every door led to somewhere new. The floorboards groaned like something breathing underneath. Then she saw it—a stairway down to the basement, lit by faint candlelight. She didn't want to go, but her feet moved on their own. The basement reeked of mildew and burnt flesh. Walls were covered in black handprints. Children’s handprints. Then she saw her: a little girl, soaking wet, standing in the shadows. Her head tilted unnaturally to one side, water dripping from her hair onto the floor. “It still hurts,” the girl said. “They burned us here. They fed us to her.” The girl vanished. Then came the noise—screaming, dozens of them, layered over each other, coming from the walls. Maya screamed and sprinted back upstairs. But the house was now shifting in front of her eyes—walls expanding, doors shrinking, the ceiling breathing. She burst into the living room. It wasn’t empty. Figures surrounded her—shadows in human shape, their faces burned or missing. And in the center, a red velvet armchair turned slowly to reveal a woman—ageless, perfect, and horribly wrong. Her eyes glowed like embers. “Welcome,” the woman whispered. “You’ve already signed the contract.” The walls wept blood. Maya tried to scream but her voice vanished. The house didn’t want to be sold. It wanted her. One week later, Whittaker Mansion was listed again online. No agency name. No contact number. Just the caption: “Renovated. Ready to Show.” A photo was attached. A woman stood in the upstairs window, her mouth twisted into an eternal scream, her eyes hollow, staring at nothing. Some say it's a glitch in the image. Others say it’s Maya… Still waiting for the next buyer.