The Hollow Whisper

Chapter 1: The House at the Edge of Town

When a small town girl, Sarah, moves into her late grandmother's decrepit mansion, she begins to uncover dark secrets buried within its walls. Haunted by eerie whispers and unsettling shadows, she discovers that the house isn't just haunted—it's a portal to a forgotten realm, where spirits crave to escape into the living world.

The rain had started again, slow at first but persistent. It drummed against the windshield as Sarah pulled into the long, overgrown driveway, the mansion looming at the end like a shadow against the gray sky. She parked her car, the engine sputtering before going silent, and sat there for a moment, staring at the house.

It was just as she remembered it from childhood, but worse—older, darker, as if time had not only abandoned it but actively worked to erase its presence. The windows, many of them broken or clouded with grime, seemed like empty eyes, watching her. The wooden walls were swollen with moisture, the once-grand porch sagging like an old man hunched over in pain.

"This is it," she whispered to herself, more to break the silence than anything.

The house was all she had left. Her grandmother, Edith, had passed away six months ago, and Sarah was the only living relative. In the will, the mansion was left to her, along with everything inside it. She had come here today to sort through her grandmother's things, maybe figure out if she could sell the place and leave the memories behind.

Sarah grabbed her duffel bag from the passenger seat, braced herself, and made her way to the front door. The wind tugged at her jacket, cold and damp, biting at her skin as she climbed the creaking steps. The key felt heavy in her hand as she slid it into the lock, the door groaning open after a reluctant push.

Inside, the house smelled of age—dust, mold, and something else she couldn't quite place. The air was thick, the kind that clung to your lungs and made you want to cough. The hallway stretched out in front of her, long and dimly lit by the light filtering through the stained-glass window by the stairs.

The furniture was covered in white sheets, like forgotten ghosts waiting to be remembered. A few framed photos lined the walls—old black-and-white images of people she barely knew. Her grandmother had always been secretive about family, never talking much about her past, leaving Sarah with a lifetime of unanswered questions.

As she made her way through the house, she felt the weight of the silence pressing down on her. The only sound was her own footsteps on the creaking floorboards. She found herself standing in front of the large, faded portrait of her grandmother that hung above the fireplace. Edith had always been a stern woman, her eyes sharp, her posture rigid. But in the painting, something about her smile seemed...off. Forced. Almost like a grimace.

Sarah shook off the thought. She was just tired.

She made her way upstairs to the bedroom she'd be staying in, pushing open the door to find a bed covered in yet another white sheet. Dust swirled in the air as she tugged the cover off and threw it into the corner. The room was simple—bare walls, a wooden dresser, and a small mirror propped on the vanity. The light was dim, but she wasn't in the mood to look for the rest of the lamps. She set her duffel bag on the bed and sat down, rubbing her temples.

The rain outside grew heavier, the sound of it battering against the window like impatient fingers tapping to be let in. The house seemed to groan with the wind, a low, hollow sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She ignored it, telling herself it was just an old house settling in the storm. But there was something unsettling about the way the air felt—thick and watchful, like the house itself was aware of her presence.

Later that night, as she lay in bed, the whispers started.

At first, it was just a faint sound, barely noticeable, like a breeze sneaking through a crack in the window. But it wasn't the wind. It was something else. It was a voice, soft and distant, murmuring in a language she didn't understand.

Sarah sat up in bed, straining to hear it, her pulse quickening. "Hello?" she called out, her voice cracking in the silence.

The whispering stopped abruptly, as if whatever had been speaking knew it had been heard. The air felt colder now, more oppressive. She glanced at the door to her room, half expecting to see someone standing there, but it remained closed. Still, the feeling lingered—a presence, unseen but unmistakably there, watching her from the shadows.

She swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. Grabbing her phone from the nightstand, she turned on the flashlight and shined it around the room. Nothing.

"You're just tired," she muttered to herself. "It's an old house. Old houses make noises."

But even as she said it, she didn't believe it. The house wasn't just making noises. It was whispering.

The next morning, Sarah woke to the sound of the rain still hammering the windows. She hadn't slept much after the strange incident the night before, but daylight made things feel a little less eerie. She pushed herself out of bed, got dressed, and decided to start sorting through some of her grandmother's belongings.

She found the old family photo albums in the living room, stacked neatly on a shelf. Flipping through them, she saw pictures of her grandmother as a young woman, standing in front of the very same house. There was a man in some of the photos, someone she didn't recognize. He was always standing a bit too far from Edith, as though there was a distance between them even in the photos.

As she flipped through more of the albums, she noticed something odd. In every picture where her grandmother was alone, there was a faint smudge near her head, like something had been erased. At first, she thought it was just damage to the old photographs, but the smudge appeared too often, too deliberately placed. And as Sarah stared at one particular photo, she felt a chill run down her spine.

The smudge in this photo wasn't just a blur—it was a shape. A face. A twisted, faint image hovering just behind her grandmother's shoulder.

Sarah slammed the album shut, her heart pounding in her chest.

Then, from somewhere deep in the house, she heard the whisper again.

End of Chapter 1