The Whispers in the Walls

Diane had always been skeptical of old houses, but when she found the charming cottage for rent in the small town of Elmwood, she couldn’t resist. The house was perfect—a little creaky, but quaint. The landlord, an elderly man, assured her it was peaceful and that she would have no issues.

It didn’t take long, however, for Diane to realize there was something off about the house.

The first night, she woke up to the sound of whispers. Faint, almost inaudible, but undeniably present. At first, she assumed it was the wind—perhaps it was the house settling, or maybe the trees outside scraping against the windows. But the whispers didn’t stop. They persisted, growing louder, like distant murmurs that seemed to come from within the walls themselves.

“Hello?” Diane called out into the darkness, her voice trembling.

There was no answer. Only the whispers.

She chalked it up to her imagination and tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt a strange pressure on her chest, as if something—or someone—was watching her.

The next morning, she decided to ask the landlord about it. He simply chuckled when she mentioned the voices.

“Ah, you must be hearing the house,” he said with a knowing smile. “It’s an old place. Sometimes the walls have a way of… speaking.”

Diane gave him an awkward smile, unsure if he was joking or serious. He seemed harmless enough, so she didn’t press further.

But that night, the whispers returned, and this time, they were louder. More distinct.

“Diane…” the voice called.

She froze, heart hammering in her chest. It was her name. Clear as day.

“Who’s there?” she called out, standing up from the bed. Her mind raced, but no answer came. She turned on the light, but the room remained empty.

The whispers grew louder, now echoing from every corner of the room, as if the walls themselves were alive.

“Diane… come closer…”

Shivers ran down her spine. Diane backed up against the wall, trying to steady her breath. She knew she had to leave the house. There was no reason for this to be happening. It couldn’t be real.

But something told her to stay.

She turned toward the corner of the room, where the sound seemed to be coming from. The wall was cracked, the paint chipped. And there, behind the crack, she saw something. A faint flicker of light. A pale hand—small, ghostly, with elongated fingers—slipped through the crack and beckoned her closer.

Diane’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the hand. It moved again, just a slight movement, urging her to come closer.

“No…” Diane whispered, but her feet moved of their own accord. She found herself inching toward the wall.

The hand gripped the edge of the crack, pulling itself forward, revealing more of its form. Its face was pale, covered in shadows. The eyes were black voids. And it smiled, a twisted, unnatural grin that sent a surge of fear through Diane.

“Come play with me…” it whispered, its voice low and sinister.

Diane screamed, stepping back, but her legs wouldn’t move. Her feet felt stuck, as if the floor itself was holding her in place.

And then, with a final, desperate jerk, she broke free and ran from the room, heart pounding. She slammed the door behind her and locked it. But the whispers didn’t stop.

They followed her. From every wall, from every corner. Echoing, growing louder, until they were all she could hear.

“Diane… we’re waiting…”

She couldn’t escape. And she realized, as the shadows around her deepened, that she never would.