The Wreath That Whispers

It started innocently enough. The Hollis family, eager to outdo their neighbors in holiday cheer, stumbled upon an antique store on the edge of town. Tucked away in a dusty corner, surrounded by faded ornaments and tarnished silver bells, was a large Christmas wreath. Its evergreen branches seemed impossibly fresh, adorned with crimson ribbons and small, intricately carved wooden ornaments. A brass tag at the bottom read, “Timeless Cheer.”

“It’s perfect,” said Grace Hollis, her eyes lighting up. She was always the one to turn their modest home into a Christmas wonderland. Her husband, Mark, and their teenage son, Liam, nodded in agreement. The price was surprisingly low for something so elaborate, and the shopkeeper was eager to see it sold.

“It’s an old piece,” he said with a strange smile. “Been in my inventory for years. Take good care of it, will you?”

The Hollises hung the wreath on their front door that evening, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the snow-covered landscape. Neighbors complimented the decoration as they passed by, and Grace felt a swell of pride. It wasn’t until later that night, as the family settled into bed, that the whispers began.

Night One

Liam was the first to hear it. Lying in bed with his headphones on, he thought the faint sound of murmuring was part of his music. He paused the track, but the whispering continued, low and persistent. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the front door.

Curious, he crept downstairs. The house was still, bathed in the glow of twinkling Christmas lights. As he approached the door, the whispers grew louder, though he couldn’t make out the words. His hand hovered over the doorknob, but a chill ran down his spine, and he hesitated.

“Just the wind,” he muttered, retreating to his room. But sleep didn’t come easily that night.

Night Two

The next morning, Liam mentioned the noise to his parents, but Grace dismissed it. “It’s probably just the wind whistling through the cracks. This house is old, remember?”

Mark nodded in agreement, though he had woken up feeling uneasy. That evening, after dinner, the whispers returned. This time, Grace heard them too. She had been decorating the living room when a faint, sing-song voice drifted through the air.

“Mark?” she called, but her husband was upstairs. She walked to the front door, listening closely. The whispers grew clearer, and one word stood out among the murmurs:

“Liam.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She opened the door, expecting to find a prankster or perhaps a neighbor—but the street was empty. Snow fell softly under the glow of streetlights, and all was silent. Uneasy, she locked the door and turned off the lights, retreating to bed.

Night Three

The following day, Grace couldn’t shake her unease. She tried to convince herself it was her imagination, but the whispers had been so clear. That night, the whispers returned with a vengeance. This time, all three family members heard them.

The voices were louder, unmistakable now. They whispered a single name over and over: “Liam… Liam… Liam.”

“What the hell is that?” Mark muttered, rushing to the door. He swung it open, but there was no one there. The wreath swayed gently in the night breeze, its ribbons fluttering. Mark grabbed it from the door and brought it inside.

“This thing is coming down,” he said, tossing it onto the coffee table. “Maybe it’s got some kind of speaker in it.”

Grace shook her head. “It’s an antique. How could it…” Her voice trailed off as the whispers stopped abruptly. The silence was almost worse.

Night Four

The family’s unease deepened. Mark spent the day examining the wreath, cutting into its branches and ornaments, but found nothing unusual. That night, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent.

This time, they called another name: “Grace… Grace…”

Terrified, Grace begged Mark to throw the wreath away. He drove it to the town dump, hurling it into a pile of discarded furniture. When he returned home, the family finally felt a sense of relief. But at 3 a.m., a loud knock at the door shattered the calm.

Mark opened it cautiously. The wreath was back, hanging neatly on the door as if it had never left.

Night Five

The family decided to call the antique store, but the number on the receipt was disconnected. When they drove back to the shop, it was boarded up, as if it hadn’t been in business for years. Frustrated and scared, they returned home to find the wreath glowing faintly in the darkness of their living room.

“It’s cursed,” Liam whispered, voicing what they all feared.

The whispers grew louder that night, their cadence feverish and unrelenting. The names changed again: “Mark… Mark… Mark.”

Mark tried burning the wreath, but the flames extinguished as soon as they touched it. Cutting it apart only caused the whispers to turn into screams. In desperation, Grace scoured the internet for answers, uncovering a legend about a “Wreath of Binding,” an ancient relic said to ensnare its victims by exploiting their fears and secrets.

Night Six

The family’s nerves were frayed. No one slept, and the whispers now echoed throughout the house, regardless of where the wreath was placed. The names cycled through all three family members, and the voices seemed to taunt them:

“You can’t hide…”

“You can’t run…”

“It’s almost time…”

Grace found an old ritual online that claimed to banish cursed objects. It required salt, candles, and a chant. The family gathered in the living room, encircling the wreath with salt and lighting the candles. As they recited the chant, the whispers turned into piercing screams. The wreath began to writhe, its branches twisting and cracking.

Suddenly, the lights went out, plunging the house into darkness. When they flickered back on, the wreath was gone. For a moment, they thought it was over.

Christmas Eve

The morning of Christmas Eve was eerily quiet. The family avoided mentioning the wreath, afraid to summon its power again. They tried to go about their day, but a heavy sense of dread hung over the house.

That night, as they sat around the fireplace, the whispers returned. This time, they didn’t stop. The names came faster, overlapping in a cacophony of voices. The family tried to leave the house, but the doors wouldn’t budge. The windows wouldn’t shatter. They were trapped.

The wreath reappeared on the coffee table, its ornaments glowing with an unnatural light. One by one, the wooden carvings began to move, reshaping themselves into miniature effigies of the family members.

“It’s us,” Liam whispered, horrified.

Before they could react, the room filled with a blinding light. When the neighbors came by the next morning to wish them a Merry Christmas, the house was empty. All that remained was the wreath, hanging proudly on the front door.

And if one listened closely, they could hear the faint sound of whispers, calling new names.

The End.

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