Whispers in the Walls

Rain lashed against the crooked windows of Black Hollow Manor, each drop sounding like a faint tap on a coffin lid. The manor had stood for over two centuries, long abandoned and buried in the woods of Raven’s Hollow, where even animals refused to tread. Locals called it cursed. Stories of missing hikers, disembodied screams, and the faint glow of lanterns in the dead of night haunted the nearby village. No one dared approach after sunset.

But Eric Walsh wasn’t like most people.

A self-proclaimed urban explorer and content creator, Eric thrived on fear. His online persona, "NightScope," had hundreds of thousands of followers who cheered every time he delved into a place no sane person would enter. And Black Hollow Manor was to be his magnum opus.

He arrived just after dusk, armed with a backpack full of camera gear, flashlights, batteries, and a drone. The forest had grown thick with vines and brambles, as if nature itself tried to bury the place. But Eric pushed forward, documenting everything, grinning like a kid in a haunted candy store.

The manor loomed up from the underbrush, its gothic spires clawing the sky. Rotting wood, shattered windows, and the lingering stench of mildew greeted him. The front door was ajar, like it had been waiting.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he whispered into his mic, “welcome to hell.”

Inside, darkness swallowed the narrow hallways. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of mold and something... older. Eric moved slowly, shining his flashlight over faded portraits whose faces had melted with time, their eyes seeming to follow him.

Every step on the rotting floor echoed through the silence like a gunshot.

He reached the grand staircase when he heard it—the first whisper.

It was faint, like breath sliding across skin. A woman’s voice.

“Eric...”

He froze.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered to the camera. “Playback later. Might’ve been wind.”

But it wasn’t.

The whisper came again, louder, closer. "Eric... come... down."

But he was already upstairs.

In one of the rooms, he found a child’s nursery. Dust-covered toys littered the floor. A wooden cradle sat in the corner, gently rocking.

He hadn’t touched it.

As he moved toward it, the cradle abruptly stopped.

Silence. Then, a soft giggle.

Not a child’s. Something older pretending to be young.

He backed out of the room quickly, breath short.

“Okay, that was creepy,” he whispered. “Even for me.”

He resumed his tour, but the house had changed.

The layout was wrong.

Doors that should’ve led to closets opened into endless black hallways. Windows looked out into brick walls. The air grew colder, his breath visible in clouds.

Then came the footsteps.

Behind him. Soft. Bare.

He turned. Nothing.

He ran to the front door—but it was gone.

Where there had been an entrance, there was now only solid wall.

The house had sealed him in.

“Okay, no panic,” he muttered. “No panic. This is probably structural collapse. Old house. Things shift.”

But then the lights flickered—though he hadn’t brought any.

Faint bulbs overhead buzzed to life. The manor was waking.

And it was hungry.

A new whisper came. “Basement.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not doing that.”

But his legs moved anyway.

He tried to stop—couldn’t. His limbs felt like puppets.

Each step took him closer to the basement door, a thick slab of ancient oak, covered in scratches.

Something had tried to escape.

He reached out.

The handle was warm.

The basement smelled of iron and rot.

Walls of crumbling stone dripped with moisture. Chains hung from the ceiling. And in the center of the room, a pentagram was burned into the floor.

As he stepped closer, the camera’s feed went black.

Then the whisper returned—deeper now.

“Join us.”

Figures emerged from the shadows.

Pale, eyeless things with stretched smiles and fingers too long.

They circled him.

One stepped forward, a woman in a blood-stained dress. Her mouth opened—unhinged like a snake—and from within spilled dozens of whispers, each in a different voice.

Some begged for help.

Others screamed.

One just laughed.

Eric dropped the camera. The footage caught everything until it turned to static.

The next day, villagers noticed the forest was quiet. Birds had stopped singing.

Weeks later, hikers found Eric’s drone—half-submerged in a swamp.

The footage was intact.

It showed Eric entering the house. The whispers. The woman. The things in the basement.

Then it showed something else.

The camera turned back on hours later. Eric was behind the lens.

His face... wrong. Lips too wide. Eyes dead.

He smiled at the camera and whispered: “Your turn.”

The screen went black.

And so did the village.

One by one, people disappeared.

A month later, the manor was gone.

Just forest.

But sometimes, at night, hikers swear they hear whispers in the trees.

Calling a name.

Maybe yours.