Whispers in the Walls

I. The House on Blackwood Lane

It was a house no one dared to claim. For decades, the mansion at 113 Blackwood Lane stood abandoned, its windows like empty eyes staring into the night. Legends spoke of whispers that slithered through the walls, of shadows moving where no light touched. To many, it was just an old, rotting relic. But to Margaret Holloway, it was an opportunity.

Margaret was a journalist with an insatiable curiosity for the macabre. When she heard of the house’s history—a series of disappearances spanning over a century—she knew she had to see it for herself. Armed with her notebook, flashlight, and a determination that bordered on reckless, she crossed the threshold.

II. The Whispers Begin

The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of decay and something else—something metallic. The wooden floor groaned under her cautious steps. Dust-covered portraits lined the walls, their subjects watching her with hollow, painted eyes.

Then she heard it.

A whisper, faint and breathy, curling through the air like a dying breath.

Get out.

Margaret froze. The rational part of her wanted to run, but the journalist in her demanded she stay. She pressed forward, moving into what had once been the dining hall. A long table stretched across the room, its surface littered with plates and goblets, untouched yet covered in dust—as if the occupants had left in the middle of a meal and never returned.

A cold breeze brushed against her neck.

Run.

Her pulse quickened. The voice was clearer now, closer. But there was no one there.

III. The Tapestry’s Secret

Margaret’s flashlight flickered over a massive tapestry at the end of the hall. The woven image depicted a grand feast, eerily similar to the table before her. But the figures in the tapestry were unnatural—their faces twisted in agony, mouths frozen mid-scream. She stepped closer, heart pounding.

And then she saw it.

One of the figures was moving.

Not the fabric—the image itself. The man in the tapestry, a noble dressed in velvet, turned his head, his painted eyes locking onto hers.

A scream tore through the silence—not hers, but from the walls themselves. A cacophony of voices, wailing, pleading, crying. The room spun, the air turning thick as if she had been submerged underwater. Margaret staggered back, her hand brushing against something slick and warm.

Blood.

It seeped from the tapestry’s edges, oozing onto the floor, pooling around her feet. The figures within writhed, their mouths stretching unnaturally wide, their eyes hollow pits of despair. The noble in velvet smiled.

You’re one of us now.

IV. The Vanishing

Margaret stumbled backward, but the house would not let her go. The walls pulsed as if alive, their whispers now a deafening roar. A force unseen dragged her towards the tapestry, her screams swallowed by the chorus of the damned.

Her fingers clawed at the floorboards, at the doorway, at anything to anchor herself in reality. But reality was slipping.

The last thing she saw before darkness consumed her was her own reflection in the tapestry.

Her mouth open in a silent scream, forever woven into the feast of the damned.

V. A New Legend

Days passed before anyone noticed Margaret was missing. Her editor sent a young intern to her last known location—the house on Blackwood Lane. The intern found her car parked outside, her notebook on the front seat, pages filled with frantic scribbles.

But Margaret Holloway was never seen again.

And the tapestry? It remained in the dining hall, its figures frozen in their eternal torment.

Except now, among them, was a new face.

A woman with wide, terrified eyes, her mouth open in a soundless scream.