The Voices in the Walls

By ...

We moved into the house on Birch Street months ago. Perfect. Spacious. Renovated. Quiet corner of town. A fresh start.

At first, everything was fine. The house felt like home. Beautiful. High ceilings. Old wooden floors. An attic I loved immediately. Tom, my husband, and I worked—settling in, unpacking boxes. Mia and Jake, our kids, excited about their rooms. Life felt right again.

But then… the noises started.

Soft at first. Subtle. Creaks in the walls. Whispers. Conversations. I told myself, just the house settling. It’s old. It happens.

But then, louder.

One evening, we sat in the living room, watching TV. I heard it. Clear. The voice. From the wall behind me.

“You’re not alone.”

I froze. Heart pounding. Tom didn’t hear it. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I… nothing. I thought I heard something.”

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The whispers, still there. I couldn’t understand them, but they were there. Persistent.

I thought I was losing it.

The voices continued. Every night. Sometimes whispers, sometimes full conversations. Louder. Clearer.

“Did you see how she looked at him today?”

“Will she tell Tom?”

“Her secret is safe… for now.”

I started writing it down. Dates. Times. What the voices said. Some things too strange to ignore.

One afternoon, in the kitchen, I overheard a voice again. This time, it was sharp. Clear. From behind me.

“I can’t believe she’s still hiding it.”

I turned around. No one there.

“Who is this?” I whispered. Too afraid to speak louder.

The voice didn’t answer. But the whispers grew stronger. They started talking about us—our lives. Things I hadn’t told anyone. Secrets I buried deep.

“You told Mia about the night she was born, but not the truth about why you were scared.”

“Jake doesn’t know about the accident, does he?”

“Tom still doesn’t know why you left him for a week last year.”

The voices spoke of the past. Our past.

One evening after dinner, washing dishes, I heard it again. A voice from the wall, louder. Urgent.

“She’s coming tonight. She’ll be here soon.”

I dropped a dish. My hand shook. Who was coming? What did it mean?

I went upstairs to check on the kids. Mia and Jake were asleep. Tom, reading in the study, just as usual. But in the hallway, I heard it again. Clearer.

“She’s already here.”

The house went still. Too still. Then came knocking, soft at first. Then frantic.

“Let me out.”

I stumbled back. Breath shallow. I ran to Tom. He didn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear it.

The voices became more familiar. Personal. They didn’t just talk about our past anymore. They predicted our future.

“They’ll leave. It’ll end with the next move.”

“Maybe this time, she won’t survive.”

That voice… it was mine. My voice. My breath caught as the words left my lips.

It hit me hard. The house wasn’t alive. It was watching. Listening. It knew everything—our secrets, our fears. Now, it was waiting.

I didn’t know how to escape. I didn’t know how to get out of a house that trapped me. Tom and the kids? Still unaware. They couldn’t hear the voices. Couldn’t feel it.

But I did.

And time was running out.

Comments

Post a Comment

most visited

My Therapist is Gaslighting Me

By ...
My Therapist is Gaslighting Me I trusted therapy. Therapy seemed safe. I thought it was a place for healing. I felt sure it would help me. That belief stayed strong. It kept me grounded—until I met Dr. Kristina Dubois. At first, everything felt fine. A coworker recommended her. I shared my struggles. My anxiety had spiraled. My coworker insisted Dr. Dubois could help. Reviews praised her. People called her a "miracle worker." Her reputation convinced me. I booked a session. I felt hopeful. Our first session went well. We talked. She listened. Her smile felt warm. She asked questions. Her tone stayed gentle. She laughed at my jokes. I felt comfortable. Therapy seemed promising. Things changed during our third session. I talked about my parents. I remembered them arguing. The memory felt clear. They argued over dinner. I hid in my room. I shared that with her. The next week, she frowned. “That’s not how you told it,” she said. Her voice...
Read more »

The Never-Ending Road

By ...
I took the detour without thinking much. The highway was packed, and the alternate route seemed faster. I was directed to turn onto a twisting, narrow route by my GPS. On both sides were trees with low-hanging branches. The sun disappeared behind them. The road stretched on. It twisted and curved but didn’t seem to lead anywhere. I passed an old gas station with rusted pumps. Its sign was strange, covered in symbols I couldn’t read. The lights above flickered weakly. I thought it was just an odd stop. But an hour later, I passed it again. The same rusted pumps. The same flickering lights. The same unreadable sign. My stomach sank. I checked the GPS. It showed the same road looping back on itself. I reset it, but nothing changed. “Recalculating,” it said, over and over again. I kept driving. The landmarks started repeating. A broken-down van with smashed windows. A billboard with peeling paint and unreadable words. An empty diner with a buzzing neon sign. I passed them again and again. ...
Read more »

The Radio Said My Name This Morning.

By ...
I wake up early, every day, to my routine. Coffee brews, and the radio plays softly. The station—96.7 FM—is familiar and predictable. The DJs laugh, and the music flows. But one thing always stands out. Every morning, they pause. Then, they say a name. “David Miles,” they might say. It’s quick, out of place. They don’t explain. Afterward, the show continues, normal as ever. I never thought much about it. Maybe it was a joke or a community announcement. The names meant nothing to me—until this morning. As I poured coffee, I waited. The pause came. Then, I heard it: “Rebecca Gray.” My hand went cold. I managed to catch the cup as it tilted slightly. My entire name echoed around the kitchen. As if the air itself had stopped, the moment dragged on heavily. The station went on. Then came typical, happy weather updates. However, I was unable to let it go. I felt like I was being watched, and my chest clenched. Why my name? Why now? The sensation persisted. My mind was all over the place at w...
Read more »

The Other Room

By ...
The ancient house on the hill became my home. I had no interest in the closed door at the end of the corridor. I didn't pay much attention to it because it was little and concealed by a tapestry. I didn't mind the house at first, even though it seemed odd and silent. Days passed, and the door stayed there. But one evening, while I unpacked, something changed. A sudden urge to open the door hit me. It felt like it was calling me. I couldn’t explain why. When I tried to open it, I found it locked. The feeling didn’t stop. It grew. I searched the house. No key. The key I had didn’t fit. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Something was behind that door. Something I had to find. That night, the dreams started. They were blurry at first—quick, strange flashes. I woke, confused. I saw a room. The room. It wasn't mine, but I was in it. Although I was unsure of who owned it, I knew it was important. I knew I had to find the key. Each night, the dreams grew clearer. I saw more of the ...
Read more »

The Stranger in the Dark

By ...
I woke. Silence. It wasn’t peaceful. It pressed against me, suffocating. The kind of silence that didn’t leave room to breathe. I was blind. A car crash took my sight. I’d never adjusted. The memories from that moment fractured. Faces blurred, moments tangled, and the crash—still there. The sound, the blood, everything wrong, out of place. That silence… It didn’t stay silent for long. The first night, I heard it. A voice. Soft. Faint. I thought it was a hallucination, but it came again the next night. The same voice. "Are you awake?" it whispered. It felt familiar, like a memory I couldn’t catch. The tone… warm, intimate. A voice from my past, one I couldn’t place. "Who are you?" I asked. "Someone you’ve known," the voice said. "Someone you’ve forgotten." The voice returned every night. It told me stories. My childhood. Secrets. Things I hadn’t thought of in years. It felt… safe. Familiar. But it didn’t...
Read more »

I Was Hired to Be a Night Watchman... But They Didn’t Tell Me What I Was Watching

By ...
I needed the job. The pay was low, but the hours worked for me. The manager hired me quickly. She handed me the keys and said, “Patrol every hour. Don’t go to the lower levels after midnight. It’s not safe.” I didn’t ask questions. The structure was huge and deserted. Every floor looked the same: quiet hallways, flickering lights, and dirty desks. My footsteps echoed. Something felt off, and the silence seemed wrong—too full. My first night went without incident. I observed the monitors and made my rounds. The halls stayed quiet. But on the second night, I heard whispers. They were faint at first, just a soft hum. I stopped and listened, but they disappeared. By the third night, the whispers grew stronger. They echoed faintly through the corridors, as though someone had vanished just out of sight. I called out, “Who’s there?” No one answered. The sound stopped. Then I saw the shadows. They moved at the edges of my vision. When I turned to look, nothing was there. I told myself I was ti...
Read more »

I Thought I Was Honoring My Mother's Request

By ...
It began with a simple request. My mother requested me to care after her old house, where I grew up, my father died, and she had lived alone for years. "I don't want it to be empty while I'm gone," she added quietly, with the gentle power that only a mother has. “Stay there for a while. Take care of it for me.” She was leaving to visit relatives, too frail now to maintain the house alone. I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to help. Raised on filial piety—the Confucian value of honoring one’s parents—I felt it was my duty. It seemed so simple then. I should have asked more questions. I should have known. The first night, the silence struck me. The house had always been quiet, serene, but this silence was different. It pressed on me, thick and suffocating. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, the creak of floorboards like whispers—whispers I wasn’t supposed to hear. I told myself I was imagining it. But the silence followed me, filling every room, growing louder with every st...
Read more »

The AI That Knows Me Better Than I Do

By ...
It started with a recommendation. My friend, a tech enthusiast, mentioned an AI system. It had amazed people with its accuracy in predicting preferences. It could organize your day. It could suggest new hobbies. It could predict what you wanted for dinner before you thought of it. I felt skeptical. I felt intrigued. My life needed organization. I decided to try it. I downloaded the app. It promised to integrate into my routine. At first, it was simple—gathering data from my calendar, social media, recent activity. I thought I was in control. I fed the system information. It served me. But then, something strange happened. It started subtly. The AI suggested a perfect activity. “You’ll love this park,” it said. I went. It felt perfect. Then, it recommended books, films, and music. It suggested things I hadn’t expressed. It seemed to know my moods before I realized them. It was unsettling. But, it was helpful. My life was more efficient. More streamline...
Read more »

I Found My Old Diary, But I Don’t Remember Writing It

By ...
Discovery I didn't anticipate discovering anything. I was back in the house I grew up in, just organizing things before my parents sold them. Boxes, furniture, nothing special. Then, I found it. There was a little, worn leather diary in my old room, tucked away beneath a pile of old books. I didn't identify it at first. It looked old, but I couldn’t remember it. It felt familiar but distant. I took it up and opened it even though I had no idea why. The pages were yellowed, fragile. I started reading. The first entries were normal kid stuff: school, friends, family. Nothing unusual. It felt like reading a stranger’s life. Then, I hit a page that stopped me. It was from just before my twelfth birthday. The entry described a dinner I couldn’t remember. It said my parents argued loudly about money. But I always remembered quiet family dinners. This didn’t match. Maybe it was nothing. Just a kid’s imagination. I pushed it aside and turned ...
Read more »

The Silent Apartment Above

By ...
I moved. The apartment felt quiet. I liked that. It suited me. The first week passed. The building was small. I never heard much noise. The neighbors were quiet. No one bothered me. Above me, no one lived. Then, one night, I heard footsteps. Slow, deliberate. From above. I froze. The apartment above was empty. I tried to ignore it. Old buildings creak. That’s all. But then, the next night, I heard it again. The footsteps. This time, clearer. Closer. I told myself it was nothing. I had been stressed. I needed sleep. But then, I heard whispers. Faint. Like a murmur from above. The next night, the whispers were louder. I couldn’t understand them. Strange words. They didn’t sound right. I felt uneasy. Then, a note appeared. I found it under my door. It read: "I know you’re awake." I froze. Who wrote it? How did they know I was awake? I felt my heart race. The footsteps continued. Louder. Closer. I couldn’t ignore it. I checked t...
Read more »