They Whisper My Name in the Dark

It started with a whisper.

Lena had just moved into the old cottage on the edge of town. She was looking for peace, something to help her escape the noise of the city and the noise in her mind. She found the cottage online, cheap and isolated—a fixer-upper, the ad said, but she didn’t mind the work.

The first night was quiet.

The second, she heard her name.

A whisper, soft and hoarse, like someone exhaling her name into her ear.

“Lena…”

She shot up in bed, heart hammering. But when she turned on the light, the room was empty. Just wind, she told herself.

But the third night, it happened again. Louder.

“Leeee-na…”

She checked the house. Windows. Locks. Every door.

No one.

Still, every time the lights went out, the whispers returned. From the corners. From under the bed. From the closet.

They always said the same thing.

Her name.

And then—laughter.

Not cruel. Not maniacal. Just soft. Childlike. Like a secret being shared.

Lena stopped sleeping.

She set up cameras. Audio recorders. Nothing captured the sounds. But she knew what she heard. Knew she wasn’t imagining it.

On the sixth night, she stayed up with the lights on. Armed with coffee, waiting for the voice.

3:03 AM. It came.

Not just one voice now, but many.

“Lena…”

“Come play…”

“We see you…”

And then—

“We remember.”

She bolted out of bed and ran to the hallway. The lights flickered. The bulbs burst. Total darkness swallowed the house.

And in that blackness, they whispered again.

Closer.

Right behind her ear:

“You should never have come back.”

The power returned with a buzz, and she was standing in the hallway, alone.

But now something had changed.

The air was heavier. The walls seemed to breathe.

And the whispering never stopped.

She boarded up the windows. Nailed shut the doors. But each night, they found her.

“Lena…”

She tried to leave.

The car wouldn’t start. The phone only played static. The forest outside the cottage never ended—no matter which way she walked.

On the seventh night, they said something new.

“We were children…”

Her blood ran cold.

In the town archives, she found an article. From 1989. The cottage was once an orphanage. Burned to the ground. Thirteen children died inside. No survivors.

No explanation.

She kept reading.

There was a photo—black and white, grainy. Children standing on the front steps.

In the middle of them was a little girl.

Wide eyes. Crooked smile.

A name scribbled beneath: Lena Blackwell.

Her breath caught.

It couldn’t be.

But it was her.

She was a child in the photo.

She didn’t remember it. Didn’t remember being adopted. Her earliest memories began at age eight in a different town.

She was one of them.

And now, she was back.

That night, they came for her.

She heard them giggle through the walls. Whispering her name like a lullaby.

The house grew cold. The air thick with soot.

Shadows poured from the corners like liquid. Formless, faceless, but brimming with voices.

“You left us…”

“You forgot…”

“Stay with us…”

Lena backed into her room and locked the door. She screamed. Cried. Apologized. But they kept whispering.

“We forgave you…”

“Now you’re one of us…”

The lights went out one final time.

When the sun rose, the cottage stood silent.

Empty.

No trace of Lena remained.

Only whispers.

And if you stand near the cottage at night, they say you can hear it—

A girl’s voice, soft and distant, whispering names into the dark.