The whispering walls

The house was everything Priya and Rohan had ever dreamed of—tucked away in a quiet corner of the countryside, surrounded by tall trees and rolling hills. It was a place where they could escape the noise and chaos of the city, a sanctuary where they could start their life together. The moment they saw it, they knew they had to make it theirs.

The locals in the nearby village were friendly enough, though a bit reserved. When they mentioned the house, there was always a subtle shift in their demeanor—a quick glance exchanged between them, a tightening of the lips. But the couple chalked it up to the usual small-town quirks and thought nothing more of it.

The first few weeks in their new home were blissful. The house was old, but it had character—a grand staircase, spacious rooms, and a garden that seemed to stretch on forever. They spent their days unpacking, exploring, and dreaming of the life they would build together.

But then the whispers began.

It started as a faint sound, so soft that Priya thought she was imagining it. Late at night, when the house was still and Rohan was fast asleep, she would hear it—a low murmur, like someone speaking in hushed tones. At first, she dismissed it as the creaking of an old house settling into its foundations. But as the nights passed, the whispers grew louder, more distinct.

One evening, as they were sitting in the living room, Priya finally mentioned it to Rohan. “Do you ever hear… voices?” she asked hesitantly.

Rohan looked up from his book, his brow furrowed. “Voices? No. What do you mean?”

“It’s probably nothing,” she said quickly, not wanting to worry him. “Just the wind, maybe.”

But that night, the whispers came again, more insistent than ever. Priya strained to make out the words, but they were always just out of reach, slipping away before she could grasp their meaning. The more she tried to ignore it, the louder they seemed to become.

Days turned into weeks, and the atmosphere in the house grew heavy, oppressive. The once welcoming walls now felt like they were closing in, suffocating her. Priya became obsessed with the whispers, spending hours wandering the house, pressing her ear against the walls, trying to catch a fragment of the conversations that eluded her.

One night, Rohan found her in the hallway, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear. “Priya, what’s wrong?” he asked, gently taking her by the shoulders.

“They’re talking about us,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “The walls—they’re talking about us.”

Rohan stared at her, concerned. “You’re just tired, Priya. This house, it’s old—there are bound to be strange noises. But it’s nothing to worry about.”

But Priya couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The whispers were no longer just sounds—they were filled with malice, a dark intent that chilled her to the bone.

One stormy night, when the wind howled outside and lightning lit up the sky, Priya was awoken by a voice—clear, unmistakable, and right next to her ear. “Get out,” it hissed. “Leave while you can.”

She bolted upright, her heart racing. Beside her, Rohan slept soundly, oblivious to the terror that gripped her. She couldn’t stay here any longer—she had to leave, had to get away before it was too late.

In a frenzy, Priya shook Rohan awake, her voice frantic. “We have to go, Rohan! Now!”

Rohan, still groggy with sleep, tried to calm her down. “Priya, what’s going on? What are you talking about?”

“The house! It’s not safe! We have to leave before-” Before she could finish, a loud crash echoed through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps-heavy, deliberate, and coming closer. Rohan’s face turned pale as he realized something was very wrong.

Grabbing a flashlight, they hurried down the stairs, the sound of the footsteps growing louder with each step. The whispers were no longer whispers—they were shouts, angry and demanding, urging them to leave.

They reached the front door, only to find it locked, the key nowhere in sight. The windows, too, were sealed shut, trapping them inside. Panic surged through Priya as the footsteps drew nearer, accompanied by a low, guttural growl.

Rohan grabbed a chair and hurled it at the window, shattering the glass. “Go!” he yelled, pushing Priya through the opening.

They ran through the pouring rain, not stopping until they reached the edge of the woods. Only then did they turn back to look at the house, its dark silhouette looming against the stormy sky. The whispers had stopped, replaced by an eerie silence that hung in the air.

Breathless and soaked to the skin, Priya clung to Rohan, her mind reeling. “What was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain.

Rohan shook his head, his face pale and haunted. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice trembling. “But we’re never going back.”

They never did.

The house remained empty, its windows boarded up, and its doors locked tight. The locals spoke of it in hushed tones, warning outsiders to stay away. And though Priya and Rohan never spoke of it again, they could never forget the night they fled—the night the walls whispered their darkest secrets.

But the house, it seemed, was not finished with them.

Years later, as Priya was unpacking a box in their new home, she found an old photo album. Curious, she flipped through the pages until she came across a picture that made her blood run cold.

It was the house—their house. Only, this picture was taken decades ago, long before they had ever heard of it. And standing in front of it was a young couple, smiling at the camera.

They looked exactly like Priya and Rohan.