In the small, forgotten town of Black Hollow, there was an old house at the end of Willow Lane. No one dared to go near it, not even in the daylight. The house had stood empty for decades, its windows shattered, its paint peeling, and its roof sagging under the weight of time. But the worst part wasn’t its appearance—it was the whispers.
Locals claimed that if you stood too close to the house, you could hear them: faint, murmuring voices seeping through the cracks in the walls. They said the whispers would call your name, beckoning you inside. No one who entered ever came back out.
One cold October night, a curious teenager named Emma decided to prove the stories wrong. Armed with a flashlight and a bravado she didn’t fully feel, she approached the house. The wind howled through the trees, and the moon cast long, jagged shadows across the overgrown yard. As she stepped onto the creaking porch, she heard it—a soft, insistent whisper.
“Emma…”
Her heart raced, but she shook it off. “Just the wind,” she muttered, pushing the door open. The air inside was thick and stale, and the floorboards groaned under her weight. She shone her flashlight around, revealing crumbling walls and furniture draped in dusty sheets. The whispers grew louder, more urgent.
“Emma… stay with us…”
She tried to ignore them, but the voices seemed to come from everywhere—behind her, above her, even inside her head. She stumbled into a room where the walls were covered in strange symbols, carved deep into the wood. The whispers became a cacophony, drowning out her thoughts. She dropped her flashlight, and it rolled away, its beam flickering.
“Emma… you’re ours now…”
Terrified, she turned to leave, but the door slammed shut. The walls began to close in, the symbols glowing faintly. She screamed, pounding on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The whispers grew louder, more triumphant, until they were all she could hear.
The next morning, Emma was gone. The house stood silent once more, its secrets hidden behind its crumbling walls. But if you pass by on a quiet night, you might hear the whispers—calling, always calling, for the next curious soul to enter.
And the house is always hungry.
