The Wreath of Whispers

It was the first snowfall of December when the Harrisons decided to pull out the Christmas decorations. The family had moved into the old Victorian house just two weeks prior, drawn by its charm and too-good-to-be-true price. The creaky floorboards and drafty windows didn’t bother them; in fact, they found the quirks endearing. For Sarah and David, it was the perfect place to raise their two children, Emily and Ben.

The attic, however, was less charming. Cobwebs hung thick in the corners, and the air smelled of mildew. As Sarah rummaged through the boxes left by the previous owners, she came across a wreath wrapped in faded green tissue paper. Unlike the plastic decorations in the other boxes, this one was handmade. Twigs and pinecones were woven together with dried berries and what looked like real holly leaves. A crimson ribbon tied it all together, though the fabric was frayed and stained.

“This is beautiful,” Sarah murmured, holding it up to the dim light streaming through the attic window. “David, look at this! Did you know this was up here?”

David glanced up from a box of tangled string lights. “Looks old. Think it’s worth keeping?”

“Absolutely. It has… character.” She smiled and carried it downstairs, ignoring the faint shiver that ran down her spine when she touched the ribbon.

That evening, the wreath was hung on the front door. Emily and Ben helped their parents decorate the house, stringing lights and hanging ornaments. By the time they finished, the house looked like a postcard from a winter wonderland. The family admired their work before settling in for a cozy evening by the fire.

But as the night deepened, strange things began to happen.

It started with whispers. At first, they were faint, barely audible over the crackling of the fireplace. Sarah thought it was the wind sneaking through the old windows. But when she turned to check, the windows were shut tight.

“Did you hear that?” she asked David, her brow furrowed.

“Hear what?” he replied, not looking up from his book.

“Nothing. Probably just the wind.”

But as the hours passed, the whispers grew louder, distinct. They sounded like words, though Sarah couldn’t make out what was being said. She shook her head, blaming her overactive imagination, and went to bed.

The next morning, Emily and Ben were unusually quiet at breakfast. Normally, the siblings bickered or giggled over their cereal, but today they stared at their bowls, their faces pale.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Sarah asked Emily.

Emily hesitated before speaking. “I heard someone talking last night. Outside my room.”

Ben nodded solemnly. “Me too. It sounded like… whispers.”

David chuckled. “It’s an old house. Houses make noises, especially at night. Don’t let it scare you.”

The children didn’t seem convinced, and neither did Sarah, though she didn’t say so.

That evening, Sarah decided to investigate the wreath. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow connected to the strange occurrences. As she examined it closely, she noticed something odd. The crimson ribbon wasn’t stained with age; it was speckled with something that looked disturbingly like dried blood. The berries, too, seemed darker than they should be, almost black.

“It’s just an old decoration,” she muttered, trying to reassure herself. But when she touched the ribbon, she felt a sharp prick, as if a thorn had pierced her finger. She yanked her hand back and saw a bead of blood welling up. As she stared at it, she thought she heard a faint, mocking laugh.

She quickly stepped away and decided to leave it alone. Maybe it was time to take the wreath down, she thought. But something stopped her. A heavy, inexplicable dread settled in her chest, as if removing the wreath would anger… something.

Over the next few days, the whispers became impossible to ignore. They no longer confined themselves to the night; they could be heard in broad daylight, echoing faintly through the house. Sarah tried to dismiss them as her imagination, but the children grew more frightened.

“Mommy, the whispers are saying my name,” Emily said one afternoon, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly.

Ben nodded, his eyes wide. “Mine too. They’re… they’re asking us to come outside.”

That was the final straw. Sarah decided to take the wreath down. But when she reached for it, the ribbon seemed to tighten, as if resisting her. She tugged harder, and the wreath finally came free, though the effort left her breathless. She threw it into the trash can at the end of the driveway and slammed the lid shut.

For the first time in days, the house felt quiet. Peaceful. Sarah let out a sigh of relief.

That night, a storm rolled in. Fierce winds howled around the house, rattling the windows. Sarah was about to head to bed when she heard a loud thud against the front door. Her heart raced as she peered through the peephole. Nothing was there.

But when she opened the door, she froze. The wreath was back, hanging perfectly on the hook as if it had never been removed. The ribbon fluttered in the wind, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw something move within the shadows of the twisted branches.

The next morning, David found Sarah sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at her coffee cup. “You didn’t sleep, did you?” he asked, concerned.

She shook her head. “David, we need to get rid of that wreath. For good.”

“It’s just a decoration,” he said, trying to reassure her. But when he saw the fear in her eyes, he relented. “Alright. I’ll burn it.”

David took the wreath to the backyard fire pit. The children watched from the window as he poured lighter fluid over it and struck a match. The flames roared to life, consuming the wreath in seconds. Sarah let out a shaky breath, relieved to see it reduced to ashes.

But the relief was short-lived.

That night, the whispers returned, louder than ever. They echoed through the house, overlapping and frantic. The children screamed, and Sarah and David ran to their rooms, only to find the windows wide open and snow blowing in. The whispers seemed to come from outside, urging them to look.

When they peered out, they saw something that made their blood run cold. The wreath was back, hanging on the front door, completely intact.

And it wasn’t alone.

Figures stood in the yard, shadowy and indistinct, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. They stared at the house, unmoving, as the whispers swirled around them like a storm.

“What do you want?” Sarah screamed, her voice breaking.

The whispers paused, as if considering her question. Then, one word cut through the air, clear and chilling:

“Blood.”

The Harrisons barricaded themselves in the living room, huddled together as the figures outside crept closer. The door rattled violently, and the wreath seemed to pulse, its berries glowing like embers. The whispers turned into screams, filling the house with an unbearable cacophony.

In a desperate bid, Sarah grabbed a knife from the kitchen. “It’s the wreath. It’s the source,” she said. “We have to destroy it.”

David nodded and unbolted the door. The moment he stepped outside, the figures surged forward, their features becoming clearer. They were gaunt, with hollow eyes and gaping mouths that emitted the terrible whispers.

David slashed at the wreath, cutting through the ribbon. The figures shrieked and recoiled, their forms flickering like dying flames. Sarah joined him, tearing the wreath apart with her bare hands despite the sharp thorns cutting into her skin. The moment the wreath was destroyed, the figures vanished, and the whispers stopped.

The Harrisons left the house the next day, leaving behind the charm and quirks that had first drawn them in. The Victorian home stood empty once more, but the whispers didn’t stop. Late at night, passersby claimed to hear voices calling to them, and some swore they saw a wreath hanging on the front door, its crimson ribbon fluttering in the wind.