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. Ever...

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...