The Whispers in the Walls
The house was ordinary—white walls, a creaky wooden floor, and windows that rattled in the wind. It wasn’t particularly old, and the neighborhood was as unremarkable as the house itself. When Priya moved in, she was confident this quiet home in a sleepy town would help her focus. She was a writer, after all. Cities had been too noisy, too fast. Here, she hoped to find peace.
But from the moment Priya stepped inside, she felt something strange. It wasn’t obvious—no sudden chills or shadows, just a weight in the air. A heavy stillness that seemed to press down on her shoulders.
She brushed it off as exhaustion from the move and her ever-turbulent imagination. Yet, as the days turned into nights, the whispers began.
The first time it happened, Priya was drifting off to sleep. A faint sound crept into her half-conscious mind, like someone murmuring on the other side of the wall. She sat up sharply, her heart pounding. She held her breath, listening, but the sound was gone.
“It’s nothing,” she told herself, lying back down. “Just the wind. Or the house settling.”
But it happened again the next night. And the next.
The whispers grew a little louder each time—still soft, still indecipherable, but unmistakably there. Priya tried to rationalize it: Maybe old pipes, or even animals in the walls. But something about the voices felt wrong, like they weren’t coming from inside the walls but somehow through them.
One night, after hours spent glaring at a blank page, Priya decided enough was enough. Armed with a flashlight and a stubborn sense of defiance, she pressed her ear against the cold wall. Silence. Then—whispers.
Her breath caught. She couldn’t make out the words, but they were close. Too close
“Hello?” she called out, trying to keep her voice steady.
Silence.
She laughed nervously and pulled away. “You’re losing it,” she muttered to herself.
Then she heard it.
“Don’t go.”
It was small and fragile, a voice barely more than a breath, but it was there. Priya spun back toward the wall, her flashlight trembling in her hands.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
Silence, then another whisper, louder this time. “Help us.”
Priya’s heart pounded in her ears. There couldn’t be anyone in the walls, she thought. Could there?
Fear battled with curiosity, and curiosity won. She grabbed a butter knife from the kitchen and returned to the spot where she’d heard the whispers. “This is insane,” she muttered, but her hands were already working—digging into the paint and plaster, peeling back the layers of the wall.
Her fingers bled by the time she uncovered it. A hidden room.
It wasn’t much larger than a closet, dark and suffocating. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp wood and something else—something rotten. Priya shone her flashlight inside.
In the center of the room was a single wooden chair. The ropes strapped to its arms and legs were frayed, but Priya could tell they’d been used. Her stomach turned.
Then she saw the walls. Scratches covered every inch of them. Words carved deep into the plaster, written over and over again: They lied.
The whispers returned, louder and frantic, filling the tiny room.
“Run,” they hissed. “Run before it comes.”
Before what comes?
Then she heard it.
Thud.
A heavy footstep on the floorboards above her.
Priya froze. Her flashlight shook violently in her hands. Another footstep came, then another, deliberate and slow. Someone was in the house.
She stumbled back from the hidden room, her breath coming in short gasps. The whispers grew louder now, overlapping each other. Run. Don’t look. Don’t let it see you.
The footsteps reached the stairs. Priya turned to the hall, her eyes darting toward the front door. She could make it. She just had to move.
But she didn’t.
Her gaze flicked toward the stairs, and she saw it.
A figure emerged from the darkness, towering and distorted. It was like a shadow had taken on a body—its edges flickering, its face lost in darkness. It moved toward her, its steps impossibly slow and deliberate.
Priya tried to scream, but her throat closed. She stumbled backward, tripping over herself. The flashlight slipped from her hands and rolled across the floor, its beam slicing the darkness.
The figure reached for her. Its arms were too long, its fingers sharp and clawed.
And then everything went black.
---
When Priya woke, she was in her bed. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, warm and gentle. She sat up quickly, her heart hammering. Her hands flew to her arms, checking for scratches or bruises. Nothing.
Had it been a dream?
She looked toward the wall where the hidden room had been. It was whole. Untouched. Her hands trembled as she got out of bed and pressed against it. Solid. Smooth. Like nothing had ever happened.
But something was wrong. Her gaze drifted to the headboard of her bed. Scratched into the wood were three words:
You’re next.
Priya staggered back, nearly tripping over her own feet. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.
The whispers returned then, faint and distant but clear enough to make her blood run cold.
Run.
She didn’t need to be told twice. Priya grabbed her keys, her phone, and bolted from the house. She drove until she couldn’t see it in her rearview mirror anymore.
She rented an apartment in the next town over. It was small and cramped, but it felt safe. For the first few days, she told herself she was fine. Whatever had happened in that house was behind her.
But then, one night, as she lay in bed, it began again.
Whispers. Soft, fragile, and growing closer.
Priya covered her ears, tears streaming down her face. “Go away,” she sobbed.
The whispers didn’t stop.
And then came the footsteps. Slow and deliberate, just like before.
Priya knew then that leaving the house hadn’t saved her. The whispers would always follow. The thing in the walls would always find her.
And as the footsteps approached her door, she realized it was only a matter of time.
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