The Whispering Walls

Maya had always been drawn to old houses. The creaking floors, the hidden corners, the stories they whispered in the silence of the night. So when she stumbled upon a small cottage on the edge of town, she couldn’t resist. It was everything she’d ever wanted: quaint, isolated, with an eerie charm.

But when she moved in, something felt… off.

The first night, she heard it. A whisper. Soft, like a breath against her ear.

At first, she thought it was the wind. But as the days passed, the whispers grew louder, more distinct.

They came from the walls.

Maya tried to ignore it, chalking it up to the old pipes or perhaps the house settling. But then, she woke up to find strange markings on the walls—scratches, as though someone—or something—had been trying to get out.

The whispers came again that night. This time, they were clearer.

“Maya…” they murmured. “Come closer…”

She jumped up, her heart pounding. She turned on the light, but there was no one there. Nothing. Just the stillness of the cottage.

The whispers came every night, always a little more urgent. Sometimes, they sounded like voices she almost recognized. A child’s laughter, a woman crying, a man’s harsh whispering.

One evening, after days of restless sleep, Maya decided to investigate.

She crept down into the basement, the air musty and thick with dust. She shone her flashlight on the old stone walls, half-expecting to find something, but all she saw was the endless stretch of brick and mortar.

Then, her flashlight flickered.

It went out.

Maya cursed under her breath and fumbled with the flashlight, trying to get it to turn back on. In the darkness, the whispers returned.

“Help… us…”

It sounded like more than one voice now.

Her heart raced as she backed up, bumping into a stack of old crates. A loud crash echoed through the basement, and the light flickered on just as the whispers stopped.

But there, on the wall in front of her, was something new.

A message. Written in something dark and smeared.

“LET US OUT.”

Maya froze, staring at the wall, her mind reeling. She didn’t know what to make of it—was it a prank? Some kind of sick joke left by the previous owner?

But before she could turn to leave, a cold hand gripped her shoulder.

She spun around, but there was no one there.

The whispers returned. Louder now, coming from all directions.

“Maya…”

She gasped, backing toward the stairs. “Who’s there?”

Then she heard it.

The sound of something moving behind her—scraping against the floor. Slow, deliberate. Something was crawling.

She turned, but again, there was nothing.

“Leave… before it’s too late…”

Her breath caught in her throat as the walls seemed to close in, the whispers rising to a deafening crescendo. She ran up the stairs, but the door wouldn’t open. It wouldn’t budge.

She pounded on it, screaming for help, but the only sound that greeted her was the maddening whisper.

“You shouldn’t have come…”

Finally, the door creaked open, and she stumbled outside into the night. The whispers didn’t follow her.

But as she stood on the front steps, she noticed something.

The walls of the cottage were shaking.

And from inside, the whispers continued, louder than ever.

They were getting closer.