House of whispers

It’s been six months since we moved into the old house on Maplewood Street. Mom said it was a “fresh start” for us, a way to move on from everything that happened with Dad. I didn’t really mind. The house was huge, much bigger than our cramped apartment back in the city, and it had a big backyard with lots of trees. But from the moment we stepped inside, I felt like something was… off. I had no way of knowing what. Just yet.

At first, it was small things. The stairs creaked even when no one was on them. The windows rattled at night, even when the wind wasn’t blowing. I’d hear soft murmurs, just low enough that I couldn’t understand the words. Mom said it was just the house settling, old houses do that, and given I was scared of old buildings and the stories behind them, I thought I was just creating them in my head cause of my fear. I guess that made sense. But then other stuff started happening.

One night, I was lying in bed when I heard it for the first time. A whisper. Not a soft murmur like before, but an actual whisper, clear enough that I knew someone was in the room with me.

“Eli”, the voice said, as soft as the wind. I sat up quickly and pushed myself against the wall behind my back, heart racing, but as I looked around me I noticed there was no one there. Just the faint glow of my nightlight casting thin shadows on the walls. I convinced myself I had imagined it and I didn’t tell Mom. She had enough to worry about already.

But it kept happening. Night after night, I’d hear that same voice whispering again. Sometimes it said my name, sometimes it didn’t. The words were always too faint to make out. I tried covering my ears with my pillow, but the whispers seemed to slip through the fabric, curling around me like cold fingers.

I started avoiding my room at night. I’d sneak downstairs and sleep on the couch, pretending to watch TV until I fell asleep. Mom thought all of this was because I missed Dad. I let her believe that. It was easier than explaining the whispers.

One afternoon, while I was in the backyard, I saw a woman standing at one of the upstairs windows, staring out at me. Her face was pale, and her dark hair was long and wild, framing her face like she’d just gotten out of bed. I waved, thinking it was Mom, but she didn’t wave back. She just stood there, unmoving, her eyes locked on me.

I ran inside, up the stairs, and into Mom’s bedroom. But the woman I just saw wasn’t there anymore. In fact, the entire house was empty. I checked every room, every closet, but the woman was gone. I told myself I had imagined her: maybe it was just a trick of the light or a reflection in the window. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

That night, the whispers grew louder. They weren’t just in my room anymore. I heard them in the hallway, in the kitchen, even in the backyard. They were everywhere. I told Mom, but she just smiled and told me I had an overactive imagination.

“Eli, this house is old” she said. “It’s bound to make some noise. You’re just not used to it yet, and voices and whispers? there's no one here who could talk except for the two of us.”

But I knew what I heard. The whispers weren’t the house settling. They were real.

A few weeks later, things got worse when I started seeing the woman more often. She’d be in my room when I came back home after school, standing in the corner, her back to me. She never moved. She never spoke. But I could feel her there, not to mention see her, waiting for something. I didn’t tell Mom about her. I knew she wouldn’t believe me anyway. She’d just say it was my imagination again and again.

I tried talking to the whispers once. Not only did I get used to them, but it was late, and I was too tired to be scared anymore. I sat up in bed and said, “What do you want?”

For a moment, everything stopped and the world got silent. No creaking floors, no rattling windows... Just pure, deafening silence. Then, a voice came through, clearer than ever before. “Help me”.

The next day, I found a box in the attic. It was hidden behind a stack of old furniture, covered in dust. Inside were a bunch of old papers, deeds, letters, stuff like that. But there was one photo that caught my eye. It was of a woman standing in front of our house. She looked exactly like the woman I’d seen in the window.

Her name was scribbled on the back of the photo: “Margaret”.

I asked Mom if she knew who Margaret was, but she just shrugged. “Probably the previous owner” she said “But she died a long time ago. That’s why the house was so cheap.”

Mom didn’t seem bothered by the fact that we were living in a dead woman’s house. But I was. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Margaret was still here, and that she wanted something from me.

The whispers didn’t stop, they only kept growing stronger. Every night, I’d hear them: "Help me" they’d say, "Find me". I started seeing Margaret everywhere: at the window, in the hallway, standing at the foot of my bed. She never said anything, but I knew what she wanted: she wanted me to help her, and I could always find her following me wherever I went.

One night, I suddenly woke up only to find her standing right beside me. Her face was inches from mine, her eyes wide and unblinking. I could neither move nor scream. I just stared at her, too terrified to do anything. Then, she got a little closer and whispered in my ear.

“Downstairs” she said “In the basement”.

I don’t remember how exactly I got there, but the next thing I knew, I was standing in the dark basement, the cold concrete floor pressing against my bare feet. The whispers were louder down there, filling my head, swirling around me like a storm, trying to ignore them was out of question. I followed their stream and it lead me to a corner of the basement where the floorboards looked uneven and the voices were noiser. I don’t know how, but I knew that something was buried there, right below where I was standing.

I remember I was terrified that night and hurried to my bedroom, hid under the blanket and didn't come out for so many hours that I lost count of them.

The next day, I told Mom everything. I told her about Margaret, the whispers, and the basement. She didn’t believe me. She laughed it off and said I was watching too many scary movies and imagining stuff. But I wasn’t imagining it. I knew what I’d heard and was certain of what I found.

That afternoon, I went down to the basement again. I brought a shovel this time. The whispers were so loud now, they were almost deafening. I dug for what felt like hours, the dirt flying everywhere, my heart pounding in my chest.

And then, I found it.

A small box, old and rusted. I pried it open with shaking hands, and inside there was a necklace, delicate and tarnished with age. I didn’t know why, but I knew it was Margaret’s. I could feel her presence behind me, her cold breath on the back of my neck.

“Thank you” she whispered as I took the necklace in my hands, and then… silence.

I never saw Margaret again after that. The whispers stopped. The house felt different, lighter. Mom said I was finally adjusting to the place, but I knew better. Margaret had been waiting for me to find that necklace. And now, she was at peace.

Sometimes, though, late at night when the house is quiet, I still hear faint whispers. Not the desperate pleas of a dead, but something softer, almost like a sigh of relief.

But I’m not scared anymore. Margaret’s gone now. I helped her.

Didn’t I?