Whispers in the Walls

When Emilia Langford moved into the crumbling Victorian house at the edge of Bellwood Forest, she thought she was escaping the chaos of the city. A recent divorce, a job lost to downsizing, and the death of her mother had left her hollow, desperate for a change. The house was cheap—suspiciously cheap—and stood alone, shrouded in mist most mornings like it was trying to disappear into the forest behind it.

But Emilia didn’t care. It was hers. A place to start over.

The first day, everything seemed fine. Dusty, yes, and the floorboards groaned like arthritic bones, but the air smelled of pine and old wood. It felt like peace.

Until the scratching started.

At first, she assumed it was mice. Then the whispering came.

It happened late at night. Faint murmurs behind the walls, like someone having a muffled conversation in the next room. But when she pressed her ear to the cold, cracked wallpaper, the voices would stop instantly—like they'd known she was listening.

She didn’t tell anyone at first. She couldn’t. She had no one left to tell.

Three days in, she found the crawlspace.

It was behind a warped bookcase in the study. She only noticed it because one of the books had fallen, revealing a panel with strange carvings—symbols etched deeply into the wood in a language she couldn’t understand. The space behind was narrow, just big enough to crawl through. Against her better judgment, she entered.

The passage smelled like rot and damp earth. The light from her phone barely reached the walls. It felt wrong, like she was crawling through someone’s throat.

The crawlspace led to a hidden room. It was circular, windowless, and lit by a single bulb that shouldn't have worked—but it flickered on as she entered. The walls were covered in mirrors. Not ordinary mirrors—old, clouded, and warped. And in each reflection, she saw herself...but not quite. In some, her reflection smiled when she didn’t. In others, it stared directly at her when she looked away.

Something was watching her. Not just from the mirrors, but inside them.

That night, she dreamt of a little girl. Pale, with long black hair and empty eyes. The girl stood in the corner of her room, whispering, "Let me out." Over and over.

Emilia woke up screaming.

She tried to leave the next day, but her car wouldn’t start. The forest seemed thicker, as if it had crept closer to the house overnight. Her phone had no signal. Even the clocks had stopped, all of them frozen at 3:03 a.m.—the time she had woken up from the dream.

She decided to cover the mirrors.

It didn’t help.

That night, she heard footsteps upstairs—slow, deliberate, dragging footsteps. But when she checked, the rooms were empty. Except for the attic.

She had never gone into the attic.

The door creaked open on its own as she approached. The stairs moaned in protest as she climbed. The air grew colder with each step.

In the attic, she found a small child-sized chair, facing a wall where symbols identical to those on the crawlspace panel were painted in something that looked like dried blood.

Suddenly, the air changed.

She turned around—and the girl from her dreams stood there.

Only now, she wasn’t a dream.

The child’s mouth opened impossibly wide, and a horrible, guttural sound poured out. Emilia stumbled backward, falling through a weak board in the floor—and landing hard in the hidden room with the mirrors.

This time, the mirrors were alive. Each one showed a different scene of Emilia—crying, screaming, running, burning.

Trapped.

The mirrors began to crack. One by one, they shattered, until only one remained. In it, Emilia saw herself—but with black eyes. Her reflection reached out—and so did something cold and invisible in the room.

She screamed, but no one heard.

When she woke up—if she woke up—she was in her bedroom. The sun shone. The birds chirped. The forest was still.

But something was wrong.

Her reflection didn’t smile back.