The Whispering House at Endridge Lane

I was never one to believe in ghost stories or haunted houses. But when I inherited the old manor on Endridge Lane from an uncle I’d never met, I didn’t hesitate to pack my bags and leave the city behind.

The house was ancient, tucked deep into a thicket of trees, with ivy clawing at the stone walls and windows that stared out like blind eyes. The townspeople gave me odd looks when I mentioned the address. A few mumbled prayers. One old man simply said, “Don’t stay after dark.”

I thought it was small-town superstition. But they knew something I didn’t.

The first week passed in quiet curiosity. The creaking floors and shifting shadows didn’t scare me. It was an old house. Of course it made noise. But on the eighth night, I woke at exactly 2:17 AM to the sound of whispers in the hallway. Not the wind. Not the house settling. Whispers.

I opened the door. The hallway was empty, but colder than the rest of the house. Ice touched my skin.

I told myself it was a dream and went back to bed.

The next morning, I found a dusty book under the floorboard in the study—wedged between warped planks that looked like they’d been pried up and nailed back hurriedly. It was a diary. The pages were yellowed and fragile. The handwriting neat, rushed in places.

The name on the first page chilled me: Margaret E. Holloway, 1927.

My great-grandmother.

The diary started harmlessly—garden updates, notes about the weather, names of family members I’d never heard of. But soon, the tone shifted. Margaret began talking about a boy named Thomas who appeared only at night. She described hearing his footsteps in the attic, seeing him in mirrors, feeling his breath on her neck while she slept.

“I asked him what he wanted,” one entry read, “but he never speaks—he only weeps.”

In one of the last entries, dated October 13th, 1928, she wrote:

> “The house is not ours. It never was. Thomas wants us gone. He says we’re in his room. I told Father, but he locked me in the attic. I think Thomas is angry now. There is blood under the floor.”



That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak, every groan of the house felt like a warning. At 2:17 AM, the whispers returned. This time, they were louder. I pressed my ear to the wall and heard a child sobbing.

Terrified, I ran to the attic.

The air was thick. Dust choked the moonlight filtering through the cracked windows. In the far corner, a trunk sat buried under a tarp. Inside it were children’s clothes from another era, brittle with time.

And something else.

A small wooden box wrapped in twine, sealed with wax. Inside were teeth. Human. Child-sized.

I dropped it and fled.

The next day, I called a local historian. He confirmed that a boy named Thomas Whitaker lived in the house in 1892. He died in the attic—locked in during a scarlet fever outbreak. The family had sealed the records out of shame.

I returned to the attic one final time that evening. I brought a candle, the diary, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

The flame flickered. The room warmed slightly.

And then the whispers stopped.

I left the house the next morning and never went back. I donated it to the historical society. They told me it’s been quiet since. But sometimes, I still dream of 2:17 AM. And a boy with hollow eyes who just wanted to be heard.