Whispers in the Dark

** Whispers in the Dark**

Elliot had always been a rational man. A journalist by profession, he spent his life exposing hoaxes, disproving ghost stories, and unveiling the truth behind urban legends. When he received a letter from an anonymous source about an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, claiming it was "cursed," he scoffed. Perfect material for another article.

The house in question was the Blackwood Manor, an imposing Victorian structure that had stood, decaying, for decades. The stories surrounding it were typical—a wealthy family massacred, a grieving mother who had hung herself in the attic, and shadows that moved without reason. Elliot packed his camera, recorder, and flashlight, and set off, determined to prove that fear was nothing more than the mind playing tricks.

He arrived at dusk. The house loomed against the blood-red sky, its windows gaping like soulless eyes. The front door creaked open at his touch. Dust and decay filled the air. His footsteps echoed unnaturally as he moved through the grand but crumbling hallways.

“Nothing but an old house,” he muttered, snapping a few pictures.

Then he heard it.

A whisper. Soft, almost playful.

He spun around, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. Nothing. The wind, perhaps? Dismissing it, he pressed on, exploring the parlor, the dining hall, and the study, each filled with relics of a forgotten time. His camera clicked, capturing the eerie beauty of the ruin.

Then, another whisper. This time, clearer.

"Elliot."

His breath caught. He hadn't imagined that. Someone had spoken his name. His logical mind struggled for an explanation. Perhaps the letter sender was playing a trick on him. Swallowing his unease, he continued.

Upstairs, the bedrooms stood frozen in time, beds still made, toys scattered as if their owners had fled in haste. The air grew heavier. A cold dread settled in his bones.

He reached the attic door. The legend spoke of the grieving mother who had died there. He hesitated but pushed forward. The attic was vast, filled with old furniture covered in white sheets. The scent of mildew and something else—something foul—coiled around him.

His flashlight flickered.

A shadow moved in the corner.

He raised his camera instinctively, snapping a picture.

Click.

Then, a sharp whisper, right behind him.

"Why did you come?"

Elliot spun around, heart hammering. The attic was empty. No rational explanation. No trick of light. Just him and the darkness.

A deep, guttural laugh resonated around the room, low and menacing. The air turned ice-cold. His breath came out in visible puffs. He fumbled with his camera, taking another photo. The flash illuminated the room for a split second, revealing something standing in the farthest corner.

A woman. Her face obscured by a veil of black hair. Her head tilted unnaturally. Her fingers, long and clawed, twitched at her sides.

Then she moved.

A blink, and she was closer.

Another blink, closer still.

Elliot staggered back, barely stifling a scream. He turned and bolted down the attic stairs, his pulse deafening. The whispers swelled into a chorus of agony and malice. The walls groaned as if the house itself were alive, enraged by his presence.

He reached the front door, yanking it open just as an invisible force shoved him forward. He stumbled onto the cold ground outside. Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. The house stood still, its dark windows watching.

Elliot scrambled to his car, hands shaking as he started the engine and sped away. Not once did he look in the rearview mirror.

Later, at home, he retrieved his camera with trembling fingers. He scrolled through the photos, each revealing the eerie emptiness of the house.

Then he reached the final picture.

The attic.

And the woman.

Only this time, she was staring directly into the lens.

A whisper slithered through the room, curling around him like smoke.

"You brought me home."

The lights flickered.

And the whispering began again.