Whispers in the Walls

Whispers in the Walls

The farmhouse had been abandoned for decades—its gray wood siding curling like old bark, windows shattered, roof half-sunken under the weight of time. But something about it called to Jenna. Maybe it was the way it stood alone on that forgotten stretch of land, surrounded by tall grass and silence.

She had passed it every summer on the way to her grandparents’ cottage. This year, at 19 and freshly heartbroken, Jenna decided to stop. She didn’t tell anyone. She just parked her car near the overgrown fence and walked up the sagging porch steps.

The air inside was stale, thick with dust and the faint scent of mold. Yet it didn’t feel empty.

She explored room by room—tattered wallpaper, broken chairs, shattered glass crunching beneath her boots. It was beautiful in a sad, haunted kind of way.

Then she heard it.

A whisper.

Faint, just behind her ear.

She spun around—nothing.

Jenna laughed it off, nerves playing tricks. But the whisper returned.

“Help me.”

She froze. This time, it was clearer. A girl’s voice, no older than ten.

“Hello?” Jenna called out.

No answer.

She moved cautiously through the house, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom. In the kitchen, she found a door to the basement. It groaned as it opened, releasing a rush of cold air that made her skin crawl.

She stood at the top of the stairs, listening.

Whispers.

Dozens of them.

Her heart pounded. She should leave. But something deeper than curiosity urged her down the stairs.

The steps creaked under her weight. The light flickered. She reached the bottom and saw… nothing. Just damp stone walls, broken shelves, a rusted water heater.

Then, on the far wall, she noticed a door.

Not wood—iron. Bolted shut with chains. And something scratched into it:

DON’T LISTEN.

Jenna stared at it, breath catching in her throat. The whispers were louder now—urgent, pleading.

“Let us out,” they said. “It hurts.”

She reached out to touch the chains.

“Jenna.”

She flinched.

That voice had said her name.

She backed away. How did they know her name?

“Please,” a child’s voice begged. “We’re trapped. They buried us.”

Buried?

Jenna shined her flashlight around. On the floor were old, worn-down markings—circles, strange symbols. This wasn’t a normal basement.

She turned to leave, heart racing, but the door at the top slammed shut.

She was trapped.

The whispers swirled now, louder than ever, overlapping, growing angry.

“You hear us now. You let them trap us. You’re like them.”

Jenna screamed and ran to the door, pounding it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Behind her, something moved.

The iron door creaked. The chains rattled.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please…”

But it opened.

A shadow spilled out—blacker than the dark. No shape. No eyes. Just cold, ancient hunger.

The whispers stopped.

The basement was silent.

Jenna stared, paralyzed. Then it spoke—not in words, but in thought. A voice inside her.

“You opened it.”

The shadow surged forward.

And Jenna knew nothing more.

Weeks later, Jenna’s car was found by the road. Doors open, keys in the ignition.

The farmhouse stood silent as always.

Except when it whispered.

Now it had a new voice.