Whispers Behind the Walls

Whispers Behind the Walls

“Some houses keep secrets. This one whispers them back.”

The house on Elder Hollow Lane was never empty—just silent. At least, that’s what the neighbors claimed. And after what happened to me, I believe them.

When I inherited the old manor from my great-uncle Malcolm, I thought it was a blessing. The place had been in our family for over a century, passed down like a cursed heirloom no one dared throw away. I didn’t even know it existed until the will arrived.

It was massive. Tall windows, ivy-wrapped stone, creaking floors, and wallpaper that curled at the edges like burnt paper. The kind of place where time felt thick in the air—heavy and unmoving.

But it wasn’t the look of the place that unsettled me.

It was the whispers.

They started on my first night there.

At 2:17 AM—every night, like clockwork.

Soft voices, indistinct. Not angry. Not loud. Just… constant. Like dozens of people murmuring behind the walls. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes sobbing. Sometimes calling names I didn’t recognize.

I tried to ignore it. Told myself it was the pipes. The wind. My mind.

But the whispers didn’t stop.

They got closer.

By the third night, I started hearing them in the daytime too.

Standing by the fireplace, I heard a woman's voice say, “Why did you leave me in the dark?”

At the end of the hall, a child’s giggle echoed through the vents, followed by the soft patter of bare feet running—though the floor was empty.

That night, I put my ear to the wall of the upstairs bedroom.

And someone whispered, “He’s listening.”

I called a contractor to check the house.

He walked out halfway through the inspection. Said the house was "wrong." When I pressed him, he simply muttered, “The walls aren’t supposed to breathe.”

I didn’t know what that meant—until I felt it for myself.

On the fourth night, I pressed my hand to the hallway wall during one of the whispering episodes. It was warm. Then… it pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Faint, slow, alive.

I staggered back.

The next morning, I tore the wallpaper down in that spot.

Behind it, I found something horrifying:

A peephole.

And then another.

And another.

Dozens of them, hidden behind the plaster. All perfectly round. All staring inward—into the room. From within the walls.

They weren’t made for looking out.

They were made for watching me.

I hired a team to tear down a portion of the interior wall. When we removed a panel in the parlor, we found a narrow crawl space no one expected. It wasn’t listed on any floor plan.

Inside were remnants: candles, a broken rocking horse, a child’s dress, old bones—and scratches on the wall, like someone had tried to claw their way out.

Then, at the far end of the crawl space, was a door.

A tiny, human-sized door.

Painted red.

Sealed shut.

That night, the whispers became screams.

They filled the house, echoing through every room.

“Let us out.”

“You see us now.”

“Open the door.”

I ran from room to room, trying to block the vents, stuff the cracks, cover the holes.

But the house breathed louder.

Walls thumped with invisible fists. Floorboards groaned with footsteps that didn’t belong to me.

The mirrors fogged up, though it wasn’t cold. And on every one of them, a message written in dripping condensation:

“LISTEN.”

I couldn’t sleep.

I sat at the base of the sealed red door with a flashlight and a crowbar.

The air was cold. Still.

At exactly 2:17 AM, I heard a key turn on the other side.

The door creaked open.

Inside was a black void. Cold and infinite.

And eyes.

So many eyes, blinking in the dark. Watching. Waiting.

A voice, soft and low, whispered in my ear:

“You've heard our story. Now you must carry it.”

Then the door slammed shut.

I woke in my bed.

Sunlight poured through the window.

Had it been a dream?

No.

Because when I looked at the wall where the red door had been—there was nothing but smooth, untouched plaster. The crawl space was gone. The peepholes sealed. The whispers silenced.

The house was silent.

But not empty.

I still live in the manor.

Some nights, I swear I hear footsteps pacing behind the walls. A woman humming. A child giggling in the attic.

I don’t check anymore.

Because I know what they want.

They want someone to listen.

And now… that someone is me.

The End