The Whispers in the Walls

Samantha had always been a skeptic. She didn’t believe in ghosts, spirits, or anything that couldn’t be explained. So when she moved into the old, Victorian house on the outskirts of town, she thought it would be the perfect project—fix it up, get it ready for sale, and move on with her life. The house had been empty for years, and the rumors about it being haunted didn’t bother her. People talked about all sorts of things when a place sat abandoned for so long.

But then came the whispers.

At first, Samantha thought it was just the house settling. Old buildings made noises. The creaks of the wooden floors, the faint rustling in the walls, it was all normal. But when the whispers began, she couldn’t ignore them. They were too… distinct.

It happened late one evening, just after she’d finished unpacking a few boxes in the living room. The house was quiet, save for the sound of the wind howling outside. She leaned back against the sofa, letting the silence wash over her. But then, as she sat there, the whispering started.

It was soft at first, almost too quiet to hear, like a distant conversation just out of earshot. But it grew louder, and soon, Samantha could make out words.

“Samantha…”

She froze, her heart skipping a beat. The voice was soft, breathy, but unmistakable. It called her name, low and slow, like a distant echo. She shook her head, convincing herself it was just her imagination. There was no one in the house but her.

But the whisper came again, this time from somewhere closer.

“Samantha… help me…”

Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t her imagination. The voice was real. It was coming from somewhere inside the walls, like it was trapped there. The words were desperate, pleading.

Suddenly, the air in the room grew heavy. The temperature seemed to drop. The hair on the back of Samantha’s neck stood up, and she stood up, shaking. She grabbed the flashlight from the table and walked toward the hallway, her feet dragging across the old floorboards.

The whispers followed her, faint and sporadic, leading her toward the staircase. As she reached the top, the whispering grew louder, and she stopped in front of the door to the attic.

The attic door was cracked open, as though inviting her in. With shaking hands, Samantha pushed it fully open, and the temperature dropped even further. The room was pitch-black, save for the dim beam of light from her flashlight.

And then, she heard it.

A soft scraping sound, followed by a low, guttural murmur.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she stepped into the attic. The floorboards groaned under her weight, and the whispering continued, now filling the entire space.

“Please… don’t leave me…”

Her flashlight flickered, and she gasped. There, in the far corner of the attic, a figure crouched in the shadows. It was a woman—no, it was something that looked like a woman. Her hair hung in matted clumps, and her face was gaunt, hollowed out. Her eyes were wide open, but there was no light behind them—just a deep, empty blackness.

The woman’s lips moved as though she were speaking, but the words were muffled, lost in the air. And then, Samantha realized—the whispers weren’t coming from the walls anymore. They were coming from her.

Samantha took a step backward, her heart racing. She turned to run, but the attic door slammed shut with a deafening bang. The whispers turned into frantic screams, echoing through the walls.

“Help me, Samantha! You have to help me!”

She screamed, pounding on the door, but the cries grew louder. The air felt thick, suffocating. The woman’s figure shifted in the corner, crawling toward her, dragging herself closer with jerky, unnatural movements. Samantha could feel the room closing in on her, the walls pressing against her from all sides.

“You shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have come here at all.”

Samantha turned to face the figure, her body trembling. Her flashlight flickered once more, and when it came back on, the woman was gone. In the blink of an eye, she had vanished.

But the whispering didn’t stop.

It came from everywhere. Inside her mind. Inside the walls.

“I’m still here.”

Samantha stumbled back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She could feel the weight of the house pressing on her chest, the walls vibrating with the force of the whispers. The house was alive, feeding off her fear.

She had to get out. She ran to the door and flung it open. The whispers followed her, growing louder, as if the house itself was calling her name. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t look back. She ran down the stairs and out into the cold night air.

The next morning, the house was still. Silent. The whispers were gone, as if they had never existed.

But when Samantha turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye—a shadow, lingering just behind the window.

And she swore, just before she left for good, that she heard the faintest whisper:

“You’ll be back.”