The town of Blackwood had a history of legends and secrets hidden deep beneath the ancient oaks; however, none of its tales were as notorious as that of the “Whispering House”. Perched on the edge of Thornhill Road, shrouded by skeletal trees and brambles, the house had sat abandoned for nearly half a century. Locals swore that shadows moved behind its fractured windows and that an eerie murmur drifted from its rotting walls, especially on nights when the wind refused to blow.
Sophie Grace was not one for ghost stories. A city-bred young woman in her late twenties, she had come to Blackwood in search of solace and a fresh start. In NYC, her life had crumbled: an ugly breakup; a job lost to downsizing; and a loneliness that seemed to strangle her in her tiny apartment. She decided she needed quiet, and Blackwood seemed to offer more of it than she could possibly use.
Here, the villagers, though polite, kept their distance. Sophie initially assumed it was because she was an outsider. They smiled thinly when she greeted them, but their eyes darted past her as if expecting something to loom behind. And the older ones made the sign of the cross when she mentioned moving into the cottage she had rented on Thornhill Road—close to the old house that was the bane of their childhoods.
Despite the townsfolk’s murmurs, Sophie often found herself drawn to the Whispering House: she would pause on her morning runs and find herself gazing at its ivy-choked façade, where wooden shutters hung crookedly and paint peeled like dead skin. It was a ruin, sure, but what a beautiful one, for a history lived within it. And history had always intrigued her.
However, one mist-laden October evening, Sophie’s interest turned into a nightmare she’d never forget.
It was nearly dusk when her friend, Tony, a local handyman who was also her friend, came over to help with some plumbing issues. Afterwards, they sat to have tea in the living room. As twilight spread shades of purple on the sky, Tony leaned in, solemn, “Sophie,” he said, “you really should be careful around that old house, y’know, bad things happened there… and I mean REALLY bad things.”
She was curious, “What kind of strange things?”
Tony rubbed his forehead, contemplating whether to tell her the truth or not. Then he went on, “The last family who lived there… the Millers, they went all mad. I mean, that is what people say. We’ve all heard that story: the father, William, was found clawing at the walls, always muttering about hearing whispers; the mother disappeared; and the two kids… well, nobody knows what happened to them, but their laughter was heard echoing through the woods for weeks after they vanished. My grandmother says the house has an ancient evil spirit that feeds off the living.”
Sophie laughed, though a chill swept over her, but she didn’t want to accept it.
“That’s just a story.”
“Is it?” Tony’s voice was so quiet she almost didn’t hear. He gently asked her to promise him she’d stay away from that place, especially at night.
She promised more for his sake than her own belief.
Yet later that evening, as shadows began to thicken around her dwelling, her curiosity about the house peaked again. So, she grabbed her flashlight, a heavy coat, and some courage, telling herself that she’d just go and have a closer look. She considered herself a rational woman: “Ghost stories aren’t rational; I must not be frightened; instead, I should look for a logical explanation to all that is happening or has happened.”
The night air was cold, biting through the layers of her clothing, and fog crept along the ground, slithering around her boots like ghostly fingers. As she approached the Whispering House, she noticed how silent everything had become. Not even the crickets dared to break the stillness.
The front door of the house was swollen with age and moisture: it made a creepy creaking sound as she pushed it open. Her flashlight beam cut through the gloom, revealing a dusty foyer with a chandelier hanging precariously and shards of glass from broken windows spread on the floor like fallen stars. Sophie shivered but stepped inside.
The smell hit her first: she tried to make sense of it, “Damp wood, mildew, and something… almost like blood”. She tried to shake off the unease, whispering to herself that it was just an abandoned house and there must be animals living there, which would explain the smell. But as she moved deeper, she began to hear it.
Whispers
The soft, echoing murmurs seemed to come from the walls, the floors, the ceiling, and even the air around her. She held her breath; her flashlight trembled in her hand. She shone the beam around, but all she could see was broken, dusty furniture.
The whispers grew louder.
“Sophie…”
Her name; no way it could’ve been her hears playing tricks. Cold fear bloomed in her chest. She tripped backwards and crashed into a table, sending a cloud of dust into the air. And then, a child’s giggle echoed through the hall.
After that came the footsteps; they weren’t loud or scary but rather small and light, like bare feet on old wood, like those of a child walking around her. They circled her in the darkness.
“Who’s there?” she demanded with an almost cracking voice.
The flashlight flickered, then died, swallowing her in total darkness. She fumbled, smacking the flashlight until the beam sputtered back to life, but what she saw nearly stopped her heart. She wished the flashlight hadn’t turned back on.
A girl stood in the hallway, no older than ten. Her hair was tangled, and she had pitch-black eyes. Her nightdress was stained, worn and torn. Her lips twisted into a chilling smile as she whispered, “Play with us, Sophie.”
Sophie couldn’t believe her eyes: “You’re not real. You’re not—” she was telling this more to herself than to the girl.
She wasn’t even able to complete her sentence when a hand, ice-cold and strong, clamped over her wrist. She spun around, yanking free, and came face to face with a man, William Miller – wide-eyed, dried blood caking his lips. He was whispering, a manic string of gibberish, before his gaze snapped to hers.
“She won’t let us leave,” he rasped. “She’s hungry. Always so hungry.”
The whispers increased into a deafening roar; Sophie screamed and turned to flee, but the house didn’t let her. The hallways, to her horror, stretched into impossible distances; doors slammed shut. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. She ran and ran, finally stumbling into a room that seemed like a nursery, with scattered broken toys and worn-out cradles. From a window, moonlight seeped in, casting everything in a ghastly glow.
“Please, don’t leave,” a voice pleaded. Sophie whipped around to see the little girl again. She was weeping bitterly, “She’ll punish us if you leave.”
“Who?” Sophie managed to say, “Who will—”
The girl’s mouth opened, but instead of words, a horrible, guttural sound spilt out. Shadows erupted from the walls, writhing and coiling. And a shape emerged from the darkness, something monstrous and undefined. It had too many eyes, and mouths, and limbs, all twisted in sickening angles. The entity emerged, and its many voices whispered in unison.
“Stay forever.”
That is when Sophie ran for it; adrenaline surging, she sprinted down those twisted hallways, past windows, and out the front door without stopping to take a breath, collapsing on cottage porch, sobbing and gasping for air in the freezing night.
Although the whispers faded, one thing remained clear: the house had let her go, this time.
The following day, the villagers noticed her haunted expression: she would jump at every creak and whisper and get startled by the sound of footsteps. Tony didn’t have to ask, for he saw the truth in her eyes. The Whispering House had claimed another victim, even if only in spirit.
Needless to say, Sophie never ventured near Thornhill Road again. But at night, as she lay trembling in bed, she could still hear the whispers in her head—calling, pleading, promising that one day she would return.
The hunger of that house would never cease.
