A horror story

The Whisper in the Walls
In the quiet town of Eldridge Hollow, where fog clung to the Victorian houses like a shroud, lived an old widow named Eleanor. Her home was a sprawling relic from the 1800s, with creaking floors and wallpaper peeling like dead skin. She had lived alone for decades, ever since her husband vanished one stormy night without a trace.
At first, the sounds were subtle—a faint scratching behind the plaster, like fingernails testing the surface. Eleanor dismissed it as mice. But as weeks turned to months, the scratching evolved into whispers. Soft, indistinct murmurs that seemed to come from every wall, every corner of the house.
“Eleanor…”
She froze the first time she heard her name. It was breathy, intimate, as if spoken directly into her ear from inches away. But when she turned, there was nothing. No one.
The whispers grew bolder at night. They spoke of secrets: her husband’s infidelity, the child she never had, the lies she told herself to sleep. They knew things no one should know. Eleanor boarded up the windows, salted the doorways, even called a priest who muttered prayers and fled, pale as a ghost.
One evening, as rain lashed the roof like angry claws, the whispers coalesced into a chorus. Hundreds of voices, overlapping, pleading.
“Let us out. We’ve been waiting so long.”
Trembling, Eleanor pressed her ear to the wallpaper in the upstairs hallway. The voices surged, clearer now.
“We’re inside. With you. Always.”
She tore at the paper in frenzy, revealing not plaster, but pale, veined flesh beneath—pulsing, breathing. Eyes blinked open in the walls, dozens of them, staring at her with her own husband’s face.
Eleanor screamed, but the walls screamed back, swallowing her voice whole.
The next morning, the house stood silent again. New tenants would come eventually. And the whispers would wait.
Horror lies not in monsters under the bed, but in realizing the house itself has been alive all along—and it’s hungry for company. Sweet dreams. 😈