Whispers in the Dark

Whispers in the Dark

Rain lashed against the windowpane of the old Whitmore estate, a symphony of nature's fury that masked the subtle creaks of the ancient house settling into the night. Emily Carter pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the damp chill creeping into her bones. She hadn't planned on staying the night, but the sudden storm had made the winding country roads treacherous.

The estate had been abandoned for years, a relic of a bygone era, until Emily inherited it from a distant relative she barely knew. She wandered through the grand hall, the flickering candle in her hand casting dancing shadows along the walls adorned with faded portraits. Their painted eyes seemed to follow her every move.

Thunder growled in the distance as Emily entered the library. Rows of dust-laden books lined the shelves, their spines cracked and titles faded. A particular volume caught her attention—a leather-bound journal with a tarnished clasp, resting on an oak desk. She hesitated before unclasping it, revealing pages filled with elegant, looping script.

"They whisper when the night falls. The walls remember."

The cryptic entry sent a shiver through her. She turned the page, only to find more fragmented thoughts—ramblings about voices echoing in the halls, shadows moving where none should. Emily's rational mind dismissed it as the ramblings of an isolated mind, yet an uneasy feeling settled in her chest.

A soft rustling broke the silence.

Emily froze, straining to listen. It wasn't the wind or the groaning wood—it was deliberate. A whisper, too faint to understand, seemed to drift from the corridor. She shook her head, blaming the isolation and storm for playing tricks on her senses. Yet curiosity nudged her forward.

The candle's flame quivered as she stepped into the dark hallway. The whispering grew clearer, though still unintelligible, guiding her toward the grand staircase. The walls seemed to close in, the air heavier with each step. Emily's breath quickened.

On the second floor, a door she hadn't noticed before stood ajar, swaying slightly. The whispers emanated from within. Pushing the door open, she found a child's bedroom, untouched by time. Toys lay scattered on the floor, and a small rocking horse faced the window, slowly moving as if recently disturbed.

Emily's eyes were drawn to a cracked mirror above the fireplace. The glass shimmered unnaturally. As she approached, the whispers coalesced into words.

"Help me."

Her reflection remained still, even as she instinctively stepped back. A pale figure of a child appeared in the mirror—a boy with hollow eyes, reaching out. Emily turned, but the room was empty.

Heart pounding, she backed away, but the boy's voice lingered.

"They won't let me go."

Frantic, Emily fled the room, slamming the door behind her. The whispers pursued her, now merging into anguished cries. She stumbled back into the library, desperately searching the journal for answers.

"The mirror is the key. They are trapped within. Break the glass, free the soul. But beware—not all wish to be freed."

Emily's hands trembled. Could it be true? The boy seemed harmless, but the warning unsettled her. Still, she couldn't ignore his plea.

Steeling herself, she grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace and returned to the bedroom. The mirror seemed to pulse, the boy watching her with silent desperation.

With a deep breath, Emily swung the poker. The mirror shattered with a deafening crack, shards raining onto the floor. For a moment, all was still.

Then the air turned ice-cold. From the fractured mirror crawled not only the boy but other figures—twisted, shadowy forms that hissed with rage. Emily realized too late that the mirror had held more than one spirit.

The boy looked at her, sorrow in his eyes, before fading into light. The dark entities, however, lunged.

Emily ran, the estate now alive with whispering voices and cold, grasping hands. She burst through the front door into the storm, never looking back.

The Whitmore estate stands silent once more, but those who pass by at night claim to hear whispers in the dark—and see pale figures watching from the windows.

-End-