Whispers in the Dark

The rain had been relentless that evening, battering the windows with a steady rhythm. My footsteps echoed through the darkened halls of Oakwood Manor, a place I had inherited from my late uncle—an eccentric man who had been obsessed with the supernatural. I'd always heard rumors of its haunted past, but I thought they were just stories to keep people away. Now, as I stood in the entrance hall, I wasn’t so sure.

The house was massive—too large for a single person. Its creaky floorboards and cold stone walls seemed to breathe, each room holding the weight of secrets long buried. The fireplace was cold, the large grandfather clock in the corner ticking away, marking the passage of time. I couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of foreboding. Maybe it was the storm, or maybe it was the unsettling memories of my uncle’s final days that seemed to linger in every corner.

I had come to Oakwood to sort through his belongings and finally make a decision about what to do with the estate. But the house had other plans.

That night, after a long day of going through dusty books and forgotten trinkets, I went to bed with a sense of unease gnawing at me. The house, though empty, seemed alive. As I lay in the stillness of the night, I heard the faintest sound—a whisper. It was soft at first, so soft that I almost thought it was my imagination. But then it came again—clearer this time. A low, breathy voice murmured, "Help me."

I shot up in bed, heart racing. The room was pitch black, and the rain outside was the only sound. My instincts told me to ignore it, to chalk it up to exhaustion, but my curiosity got the best of me. I grabbed a flashlight from the nightstand and slowly made my way into the hallway, the beam of light flickering as I walked.

The whisper came again, louder now, from somewhere deep within the house. "Help me."

I turned towards the staircase at the far end of the hall. My feet moved on their own, carrying me up the stairs to the second floor. The air grew heavier with each step, and a cold draft whispered past me. As I reached the top of the stairs, I noticed a door slightly ajar at the end of the hall. My uncle’s study.

It had been locked when I arrived, but now it stood open. The light in the study was dim, but I could make out the silhouette of an old armchair in the middle of the room. The faint glow of the flashlight revealed something that made my blood run cold—a figure sitting in the chair, hunched and still.

“Uncle?” I called out, my voice trembling. But the figure did not respond. Slowly, I approached the chair, my breath caught in my throat. When I reached out and touched the cold fabric, the figure vanished in a blink. My heart pounded in my chest, and I stumbled backward, nearly falling to the floor.

Then, as if to add fuel to the fire, the grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight with a loud chime. The echoes reverberated throughout the house, and everything seemed to grow colder. The air around me felt thick, suffocating. My uncle’s voice, though weak, whispered once more, “It’s not too late.”

I ran downstairs, my legs shaking with every step. I wasn’t sure what I was running from, but the house felt alive in a way that I couldn’t explain. When I reached the front door, I realized it was locked—though I was certain I had never touched it. Panicking, I pulled and twisted the knob, but it wouldn't budge.

The whispering voice returned, only this time it was louder—angrier. "Leave now."

I didn’t need to hear it twice. I bolted for the back door, which, to my surprise, swung open easily. Without a second thought, I sprinted into the storm, the rain pouring down, soaking me to the bone. I didn’t look back as I ran, my mind filled with a thousand questions, but only one truth: Oakwood Manor was haunted, and my uncle had never left.

As I reached my car, I heard one last whisper, faint but clear. "Thank you."

To this day, I can’t explain what happened that night. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination, maybe it was the house’s dark history coming to life. But one thing’s for sure: Oakwood Manor was more than just a house—it was a prison for souls, and my uncle’s lingering presence had been a warning I should have heeded from the start.

Now, I’ve locked the doors to Oakwood Manor for good, leaving the ghosts to haunt it in peace, but every time it rains, I hear the whispers again. And I wonder if I will ever truly be free.