The Whispers in Willow Creek

The veranda and broken windows collapsed, making it look more like a forgotten tragedy museum than after the house. It was in the sky, abandoned for over

0 years - grapes and whispers. Children in Willow Creek are about to touch the front door at night. No one has ever reached a goal.

Emma Delaney, a freelance journalist from Chicago, then brought unresolved secret weaknesses.

"I don't believe in ghosts," she told the waitress at a local diner. "But I believe in the story, and I feel it's unfinished."

She mentioned Claire Bryer, an eight-year-old girl who disappeared from her home in 1978. There is no evidence. A mother who just closed her bedroom and quickly lost her heart.

Emma rented a room at the accommodation opposite Briar House. Every night, she went out the window to see the upper-floor attic that locals claimed. She finished on the fifth day. 11:2pm October 1st Armed with DSLRs, flashlights and digital language recorders, we crossed cracked sidewalks and opened rusty gates. The wind whispered like a voice through the trees. As she stepped into the main entrance, some leaves were crushed under her boots, which rotted and softened.

The inside of the air was cold and heavy. The floor groaned at every step. The wallpaper peeled off like skin on scales. Dust floated into the thick clouds, uninterrupted for decades.

She hiked around the house and turned all the rooms. It was empty but not quiet. Sometimes the old boards whispered under their feet in a way that did not match their movements. Like something else, she shifted with her.

She found the stairs in the attic - narrow and steep. As she climbed, she felt it: this tension in her breasts as if she were watching. was evaluated. Seduction.

There was a corridor above. Only one door remained intact - Claire's old bedroom.

and at the edge of the hall, there was a large cracked mirror just in front of this room. Emma pointed the camera at her, but the lens showed nothing unusual.

She lowered it. And frozen.

In the glass, her reflection had disappeared.

was a little girl in his place, about eight. Thin, pale, hollow eyes and matte blonde hair. The shadows sticking out behind her - stupid, faceless, motionless.

Emma turned around.

The

corridor was empty.

She turned. The girl was nearby now. Her mouth whispered, but there was no sound.

Suddenly, Emma's language recorder hissed in a static way on her jacket. Then the child's voice cried out:

"I'll help you... He won't let me go..."

Emma grabbed the air. Her hands trembled. The mirror blew its breath - as breath.

Screwed in.

In her room on the other side of the street, Emma continued playing the recordings. The voice was real. girl. listen.

She returned the following morning under the sun. The attic was colder than reminded me. The mirror is gone.

In his place was a bloody handprint of a child, plastered on the wall.

She brought the photograph to the sheriff.

"You are the story of the people of the city and her ghosts," he said with a laugh. "Home is dangerous - structural. Don't go back."

He didn't even watch the recording.

But Emma couldn't let go. She was looking for public records, old news archives, and even death certificates. She found the obituary of Claire's mother, Margaret Bryer. Two months after Claire disappeared, Margaret was hanging in the attic. He ruled suicide.

Claire's father, Douglas Brier, disappeared shortly afterwards. Some said he ran out of grief. Others whispered something dark.

Emma began to assume: Claire never left this house.

October 18th, 2:03am

Emma is back. This time, she brought her second recorder and a mirror. She placed the mirror from where the original was hung. Then she waited.

Nothing happened.

Then take your breath. The temperature has dropped.

And there she was - Claire - back in the mirror. still. cry.

Emma whispered: "I'm here. I want to help."

The recorder hissed. Then the words:

"He's angry... he knows..."

Suddenly the mirror broke. The light flickered - although there was no lamp.

Deep, groaning vibrated through the board:

"Remaining".

Emma tripped backwards and hit a wall. The air was thick and choking. I started running - but the attic door hit me. Light is dead.

And in the dark, they moved a bit towards them - even worse, intentionally, huge.

She was discovered the next morning by a lawn inn at Briarhouse. There was no camera. Your language recorder is melting. She had no recollection of how she came outside.