The House That Whispers

Michael had always been a skeptic. Ghosts, spirits, and hauntings were nothing more than myths to him—stories to entertain children or fuel urban legends. But that changed when he inherited an old mansion from his estranged uncle, Arthur Holloway.
The Holloway Mansion stood at the edge of a dense forest, its once-grand structure now decaying under layers of neglect. Ivy curled around its towering pillars, and the windows were like dark, hollow eyes watching all who approached. But Michael, eager to sell the property, saw it only as a potential profit.
From the moment he stepped inside, the air felt thick, like a weight pressing against his chest. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps, and the scent of damp wood and dust filled his nostrils. Yet, the strangest thing was the whispering.
At first, he thought it was the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls. But as the nights stretched on, the whispers grew clearer—distinct voices murmuring just out of reach.
One evening, while exploring the library, he found an old leather-bound journal belonging to his uncle. The entries were erratic, paranoid. Arthur had written about voices in the walls, unseen figures standing at the foot of his bed, and most disturbingly, the presence of “The Watcher in the Attic.”
Michael scoffed, dismissing it as the ramblings of a man who had lived alone for too long. But then, something happened that shattered his skepticism.
At exactly 3:15 AM, he woke to the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps above him. The attic.
Gripping a flashlight, he climbed the creaking stairs, the whispers growing louder. When he reached the attic door, it was ajar. The room beyond was cold—unnaturally so. Dust floated in the beam of his flashlight, and then… he saw it.
A figure stood at the far end of the attic, its shape indistinct, its body wrapped in shifting darkness. The whispers ceased, replaced by a deep, guttural voice that spoke a single word:
“Leave.”
Michael stumbled backward, but before he could move, the figure lunged. The last thing he remembered was a force slamming into him, a searing cold that burned through his veins.
When he awoke, it was morning. He was lying on the attic floor, his body covered in frost, his breath visible in the air. The mansion was silent, but he knew it was only waiting. Watching.
He left that same day, never looking back. The house was sold to another owner, who lasted only a week before vanishing without a trace.
Some houses were never meant to be lived in.
And some whispers… should never be answered.