The house at the end of the lane had always been a curiosity. Its weathered facade stood untouched for decades, shrouded by gnarled trees and a persistent mist that clung to its walls, even on the brightest days. Local children dared each other to venture near it, but no one crossed the wrought iron gate that groaned as though alive in the night breeze.
Maya moved in on a dare, the kind her stubborn nature couldn’t refuse. “It’s just an old house,” she said, dismissing the townsfolk’s tales of disappearing tenants and midnight screams. She was new to the area, a freelance writer seeking quiet and inspiration. The rent was absurdly low, and the landlord’s rushed signature on the lease didn’t faze her.
The first night was quiet, save for the creaking floors and distant hoot of an owl. Maya set up her desk near a large window overlooking the overgrown garden and began typing. But as the clock struck midnight, a sound broke her concentration—a faint whisper, like a breath brushing against her ear. She froze.
“Leave.”
She spun around, heart pounding. The room was empty. Dismissing it as her imagination, she went back to work. But the whispers grew persistent over the next few nights, always at midnight. They weren’t just random murmurs; they were deliberate, echoing from the walls, carrying warnings:
“Get out.”
“They’re watching.”
One night, unable to ignore the whispers, she pressed her ear to the wall. The sound was clearer now, voices layered over one another, their words overlapping in a chaotic symphony of desperation.
Maya decided to investigate. In the basement, she found a door hidden behind rotting shelves. It was locked, but a hefty push sent it crashing open. The stench of decay hit her like a wave. The room was lined with small, crude carvings of faces etched into the stone walls, their mouths open in eternal screams.
She stumbled back, her flashlight flickering. In its erratic beam, she saw a figure—no, multiple figures—emerging from the walls. Their translucent forms shimmered, their hollow eyes fixed on her.
“You took the house,” one said, its voice a guttural rasp. “Now you take the curse.”
Maya screamed and ran upstairs, slamming the basement door shut. But the whispers followed her, growing louder, echoing through every crevice.
In the following days, her reality unraveled. Shadows moved without light. Objects shifted on their own. The whispers grew into shouts, and then, into screams that deafened her. Sleep was impossible. Writing was futile.
Desperate, she reached out to the landlord, only to find the number disconnected. A visit to the town clerk revealed the truth: the house had no owner. It hadn’t for decades. The last tenant was a man who’d gone mad, clawing at the walls until his fingers bled, convinced he could “release” the voices.
Maya left the house, abandoning her belongings, but the whispers followed her. In her apartment, in cafés, even in the bustling streets of the city, she heard them. They weren’t bound to the house.
She was their new home.
