The House That Whispers

Everyone in Halewick knew not to walk past the Blackridge House after dark.

The old Victorian mansion had stood empty for over sixty years, crumbling slowly behind a rusted iron gate and a wall of choking ivy. No one tended the grounds. No realtor listed it. It simply… existed. Like a bad memory the town refused to dig up. Some said the house was cursed. Others said it was waiting.

Except for Mae.

She was seventeen and new in town—sent to live with her aunt after her parents’ accident. She didn’t believe in ghost stories or superstitions. Her world was rational. Ordered. She preferred facts to folklore and logic to whispers.

Until the night she heard the voice.

It came on the third evening, as she walked home from the library—her shortcut cutting directly past Blackridge House. The wind had picked up, cold and whispering through the trees.

"Mae."

She froze. Her name. Soft, clear, and unmistakably close.

No one was there.

She turned and faced the gate. Beyond it, the house stood crooked against the moonlight, its windows dark but watching. A light flickered for a heartbeat behind the upstairs window, then vanished.

She told herself it was stress. Grief. Maybe even her imagination. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Nightmares had come in waves since her parents died.

But the next night, it happened again.

"Mae. Come inside."

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a request. Polite. Patient. But persistent. The kind of voice that waits for the silence to settle before it speaks again.

That night, she dreamed of the house. Not decaying and empty, but glowing with warmth. Laughter echoed in the halls. A fire crackled in the hearth. And at the center of it all, a woman with no face, her hand outstretched.

Mae awoke with dirt under her nails and ivy scratches along her legs.

She’d been sleepwalking.

The gate creaked louder every night. The whispers grew bolder. They began to speak even when Mae was far from the house.

"We remember you."

"This was your home."

"You were happy here."

They spoke to her in class. In the bathroom mirror. In the rustling pages of the books she borrowed. The whispers were inside now, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

Her aunt noticed the change—Mae grew pale, quiet, distracted. Books went missing. Mirrors cracked without reason. The cat refused to enter her room. Mae stopped answering texts. She left meals untouched. Her eyes seemed darker each morning.

One day, she drew the house from memory in charcoal. It was perfect—down to the number of shutters and the broken tile on the third step. But she had never seen it that closely. At least, not in waking life.

Then, on the seventh night, Mae vanished.

No signs of struggle. Her shoes neatly placed by the front door. Her bed made. Her window open to the wind. The town searched. The woods combed. But no one thought to check Blackridge.

Except the librarian.

She found Mae’s notebook tucked into the returned books bin. Pages filled with frantic writing, growing messier and darker with each entry:

“The house is alive. It sings to me. I think I used to live there. I think I never left.”

“It wants to be remembered.”

“I don’t think I’m afraid anymore.”

“When I’m there, I feel full. Real. Like I’m not just a shadow.”

“It showed me things. People. A life. Was that me?”

They sealed the gate after that. Bolted it shut. Posted warnings. Kids dared each other to climb the fence, but none did. Not after what happened to Mae.

But some nights, if you pass by quietly, you can hear a girl humming behind the ivy. A tune no one recognizes, yet all feel they’ve heard before. Familiar. Ancient.

And sometimes the lights flicker in the upstairs window, just for a second.

And if you’re not careful…

you might hum along.

And then the house will remember you, too.