Whispers in the Walls

The rain had begun before she even stepped out of the car.

Elena gripped the steering wheel a moment longer, staring at the house that rose like a corpse from the edge of the woods. It had the look of something meant to be forgotten — rotting porch steps, shutters hanging loose like broken bones, and vines choking the chimney. The house had belonged to her grandfather, a man she’d never met, and one her mother refused to speak of.

She wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for the letter.

It had arrived weeks after her mother’s funeral. A lawyer’s envelope, crisp and sterile, containing a single handwritten note:

“Elena,

There are things that belong to you. Things only you can claim. Come to Black Hollow. The house is yours now.

— G.H. Ashcroft”

G.H. Ashcroft. Her mother’s maiden name. Her grandfather.

The storm rolled in as she unlocked the front door. The interior greeted her with dust and silence. Wallpaper peeled from the corners like old scabs. Furniture, once ornate, stood draped in yellowed sheets. The air smelled of mothballs and something else — damp earth, maybe mold.

Or decay.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard the first whisper.

It was faint, like wind through a crack in the wall. Elena froze. “Hello?” she called, but there was only silence. She shook it off. Old houses had sounds. Settling, creaking, whispering. Nothing new.

Upstairs, the bedroom was untouched. A large four-poster bed, a vanity, and a floor-length mirror, fogged by time. On the dresser was a photo — a woman in a dark gown, standing beside a man whose face was scratched out. Her mother?

As Elena turned away, she heard it again — a whisper, low and urgent, this time behind the wall.

“Don’t open the box.”

She whirled, heart pounding. No one. No source. Just the groaning wood and her reflection, trembling in the mirror.

That night, the whispers returned. Louder. Closer.

“He kept it hidden…”

“She knew…”

“It’s still here.”

Elena tore through the bedroom, pulling back rugs, banging on walls. In the closet, tucked beneath a loose floorboard, she found it — a small wooden box, sealed with a tarnished iron clasp. Her name was carved into the lid.

Not her full name — not Elena — but Leny, what her mother used to call her when she was little.

She hesitated. Her hands shook.

Then, she opened it.

Inside were three things: a lock of pale blond hair, a rusted key, and a drawing.

The drawing was childlike, done in crayon. A little girl in a red dress. A woman. A man with no face.

In the corner, written in a shaky hand: “He won’t let us leave.”

Suddenly the temperature dropped. Her breath fogged in the air. Behind her, the whisper returned — no longer wind-like, but a voice, wet and cold.

“You let it out.”

Elena turned and saw the walls moving — not physically, but... pulsing, as if they were breathing. The wallpaper bubbled and split. A blood-like fluid seeped through the cracks. Shadows squirmed where there should be none.

She ran.

In the morning, she packed her bags. Whatever “inheritance” this was, she didn’t want it. But when she tried to start her car, the engine wouldn’t turn. No signal. No neighbors for miles.

The house wouldn’t let her leave.

She stayed one more night.

This time, she didn’t sleep. She sat in the hallway outside the bedroom, the box in her lap. The whispers were constant now — arguing, pleading, sometimes laughing. One voice rose above the rest — deep and distorted, like someone speaking underwater.

“She buried me. She lied. Now you’ll remember.”

At midnight, the mirror shattered on its own.

And something crawled out of the wall.

It was not a ghost. It was not human.

It moved like smoke, but its shape was too real — long fingers, too many joints, a torso like a collapsed ribcage, and a face with no eyes. But it watched her.

It whispered in her mind: “You are mine now, Leny.”

Elena screamed, but no sound came out. She clutched the box, and it pulsed in her hands. Without thinking, she grabbed the key and fled to the basement — a place she hadn’t dared to go.

The door was already open.

Below, the smell was worse — rot, wet stone, old sorrow. She found a locked door, hidden behind shelves. She turned the key.

Inside was a small stone room. A child’s mattress. Drawings on the wall. All in red.

She knew, without knowing how, that her mother had once been kept here. By her own father.

And whatever he had done… it hadn’t died with him.

Elena stood in that room for hours. The whispers grew quiet, as if waiting. When she lit a match and set the box on fire, the house screamed.

She heard it — in the walls, in the pipes, in the very bones of the building. The faces in the wallpaper twisted in agony. The shadows writhed. The creature in the hall howled as if it, too, was burning.

Then… silence.

She walked out of the house before dawn. The rain had stopped.

She never returned.

Epilogue

They found the house empty months later. Condemned. Torn down.

But the new house built in its place?

They say it breathes at night.

And if you press your ear to the walls…

You can still hear her name.

Leny.