The echo of Clara's footsteps resonated in the empty hallway
as she slowly made her way through the house. Every piece of
furniture seemed to watch her, every shadow seemed to move
in time with her heartbeat. She could still feel the chill that had
seeped in through the front door the night before, a chill that
didn't belong to winter, but to something ancient, something
unseen yet palpable.
She stopped in front of the staircase that led to the second
floor. The wood creaked under her weight, and for a moment,
the sound seemed like a muffled scream. She took a deep
breath and remembered Marta's warning, the neighbor: "Don't
look at her at night... don't let yourself hear her." Clara hadn't
fully understood what that meant, but now, as she stared at the
staircase, a shiver ran down her spine.She decided to go up anyway. Each step seemed to lengthen
her shadow until it was impossible to distinguish where she
ended and the darkness of the house began. She reached the
first floor, and moonlight streamed through the windows,
illuminating dust particles that danced like tiny flames. It was
then that she heard him: a whisper, barely perceptible, but clear
enough to make her skin crawl.
—Clara… —the voice seemed to come from the wall itself.
She took a step back, trying to convince herself it was her
imagination. "It's just the wind," she told herself. But the feeling
of being watched wouldn't leave her alone. Her heart was
pounding, and suddenly, a sharp thud from the basement made
her jump. It wasn't the first strange sound, but it was the closest
she'd heard so far.
He decided to investigate. He carefully descended the stairs to
the basement, each step echoing like a drum in the vastness of
the house. The beam of his flashlight barely illuminated the
floor, revealing damp patches and cobwebs that hung like black
curtains.
When she reached the bottom, the air was colder than
anywhere else in the house. Clara tried to turn on the basement
light, but the switches wouldn't work. "Perfect... just what I
needed," she muttered sarcastically, though her voice trembled.
She moved forward slowly, guided only by the flashlight.
That's when he saw the first clear sign that something was
wrong: on the back wall, a series of strange marks, as if
someone had written with their fingernails, spread out in
patterns he couldn't understand. He approached, and as his
eyes adjusted to the dim light, he made out words:"Don't come back… they're listening."
Panic gripped her. She felt her breathing quicken and the
flashlight begin to tremble in her hands. But before she could
react, a loud crash echoed from the stairs. She turned, her
heart pounding in her throat, and saw the shadow of something
that couldn't possibly be human. It was large, blurry, and moved
in an impossible way, as if the darkness itself were alive.
"Who…?" Clara whispered, but her voice broke.
There was no answer. Only an icy chill that seemed to envelop
her, and the feeling that someone was behind her, breathing
down her neck. On impulse, she took a step back, tripping over
an old trunk. She fell to the ground, hitting her shoulder, and a
sharp pain shot up her arm. But she didn't have time to lament:
the shadow was moving on.
In a moment of courage mixed with desperation, Clara ran
toward the basement stairs, climbing quickly as she felt the
darkness close in on her. Reaching the first floor, she leaned
against the wall, trying to catch her breath. But then she heard
it: a whisper, this time clearer, closer.
—Clara… come back…
It was a voice that didn't belong to any human. It had a
melancholic tone, heavy with despair and sadness, as if it
wanted to warn her and trap her at the same time. Clara
covered her ears, but the sound seemed to pass right through
her, striking directly into her mind.
Unable to bear it any longer, she ran to her room and slammed
the door. She leaned against it, trembling, as hot tears
streamed down her cheeks. She tried to calm her breathing and wondered how something so invisible could make her feel so
vulnerable, so small.
Minutes passed that felt like hours. Then, a soft tap on the
window startled her. Slowly, she looked outside. Moonlight
illuminated the garden, and for a moment, everything seemed
normal. Nothing moved, nothing breathed. But just as she was
about to relax, she saw something that chilled her blood: a
dark, thin, featureless figure stood among the trees, staring at
her.
The figure vanished in the blink of an eye, and Clara froze. She
knew she had to leave the house, but something held her back.
A mixture of curiosity and fear made her feel she needed to
uncover the truth, even if it meant facing the impossible.
She decided to go down to the basement again the next day,
during the day, thinking the light might make her feel safe. But
even in the bright sunlight, the basement seemed deeper,
darker than she remembered. The markings on the wall had
changed. They weren't just words, but symbols that seemed to
shift when she wasn't looking directly at them.
Clara took her camera out of her bag and started taking
pictures. Each flash illuminated the room for a moment, but
every time the light disappeared, the feeling of being watched
returned stronger than ever. It was then that she heard
something that took her breath away: a soft, muffled cry coming
from deep in the basement.
"Who's there?" she asked, her voice trembling.
There was no answer, only the weeping that seemed to be
slowly approaching. Clara moved forward, each step heavier
than the last. When she reached a corner, she saw a small, old notebook, covered in dust, with yellowed pages that smelled of
mold and neglect. She picked it up carefully and opened the
first page. What she read froze her to the spot:
"If you are reading this, it means they have chosen you. Don't
try to escape… they always find the curious. Everything you do,
everything you see, will become part of the house. The house
does not forget."
Clara slammed the notebook shut. The crying stopped
instantly, but a deathly chill filled the room. And then, she felt
something behind her: a presence surrounding her, seemingly
sinking into the very core of her being. She turned slowly and
saw… nothing. Or so she thought.
A whisper reached his ear, closer than ever:
—You don't deserve this… but there's no escape…
Terror gripped her. She fell to her knees, trembling, unable to
move. She tried to scream, but her voice was lost in an
unnatural echo. Every corner of the basement seemed to
vibrate with a dark energy, as if the house itself were breathing,
as if the house were alive.
Clara didn't understand what force she was facing, nor why the
house seemed to have a memory of its own. She remembered
what her grandfather used to say about old houses: "Old
houses hold secrets, angels and demons alike. You never
know which one will awaken first." Now she understood that
those words weren't metaphors. The house had a life, and that
life wasn't kind.
Hours passed. Clara lay motionless on the floor, afraid to move,
as daylight began to fade. She decided she had to go out, even though it was impossible to do so alone. She left the basement
and went upstairs. The house was silent, too silent. Every
shadow stretched toward her, every corner seemed to watch
her, to gauge her fear.
In the living room, she found something she hadn't noticed
before: an antique mirror, covered by a black cloth. For some
reason, a strange impulse led her to remove it. When she
looked, she didn't see her reflection, but a version of herself
with empty eyes and a permanent expression of terror. The
image moved its mouth, and Clara clearly heard its voice… but
not her real voice, rather another, deeper and colder:
—Welcome to the house of whispers. Here, anything is
possible… and nothing is what it seems.
Clara stumbled backward, falling to the ground, her heart
pounding. She understood something vital: there was no way
out, not while the house tried to hold her captive. And, worse
still, she wasn't alone. Something was following her, something
she couldn't see, but could feel in every fiber of her being.
That night, as she tried to sleep, she heard the first whispers of
the others… those who had been chosen before her. Muffled
voices, filled with despair, telling her stories of fear, betrayal,
and madness. The house didn't just hold secrets; it lived them,
nurtured them, and repeated them over and over, like an
endless echo.
Clara closed her eyes, but even in the darkness, the whispers
continued. She knew she wouldn't be able to escape so easily.
The house was alive, and now, she was part of it.