The Whisperer - by Valerie Tan

PART I: THE WHISPERER

In the small, forgotten town of Black Hollow, there was a house that no one dared enter. It stood at the end of an old dirt road, crumbling and abandoned, its windows shattered, its once-white walls stained with decades of grime. The locals called it "The Wither House," and they whispered that something evil had taken root there long ago.

Every town has its dark legends, and Black Hollow was no different. The story goes that, in the late 1800s, a man named Elias Wither lived in the house with his wife, Margaret, and their young daughter, Clara. Elias was a doctor, known for his skill in healing the sick. But after a terrible plague swept through the town, killing many, his wife and daughter fell ill. Despite all his efforts, they perished.

In his grief, Elias descended into madness. He began conducting strange, horrific experiments in the basement of the house, convinced he could bring his family back from the dead. He was never seen again. Some said he succeeded in raising them, but they came back... wrong. Others claimed the hou se itself consumed him, driven mad by whatever dark force he had summoned.

Over the years, many had tried to enter The Wither House, curious thrill-seekers or paranormal investigators. None returned.

One rainy autumn night, a group of college students—Sarah, Jake, Emma, and Mark—decided to test the legend. They had grown up hearing about the house and were determined to prove it was nothing more than a myth. Armed with flashlights, cameras, and bravado, they set out for the house, their excitement only barely masking the underlying fear they all felt.

When they arrived, the house loomed before them, its roof sagging and the front door hanging ajar, creaking in the wind. The air around the property felt thick, oppressive, like it was watching them. Sarah shivered but laughed it off. "It's just an old house," she said, stepping through the threshold. "Nothing to be afraid of."

Inside, the house was even worse than they had imagined. The floors were rotting, the walls covered in peeling wallpaper, and the smell—musty and sour, like something long dead—hung in the air. Mark led the way, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. "Let's check the basement," he suggested, half-jokingly.

They found the basement door at the back of the kitchen, heavy and old, its hinges rusted. It groaned open, revealing a staircase leading down into pitch blackness. The air grew colder as they descended, and the smell intensified—decay mixed with something chemical, like old medicine.

The basement was vast, far larger than they had expected. Strange symbols were carved into the stone walls, and in the center of the room stood an old wooden table, stained dark with something that looked like blood. Beside the table, a small cot lay, the blankets twisted and filthy. Papers were strewn about the floor, covered in illegible writing and crude diagrams of human anatomy.

Jake, trying to hide his growing unease, began filming with his camera. "Looks like Doctor Wither had a hobby," he said, forcing a laugh. Emma picked up one of the papers and frowned. "This stuff... it doesn't look right. Like he was trying to stitch bodies together or something."

As they explored deeper into the basement, they began to hear faint whispers. At first, they thought it was just the wind, but the sound grew louder, more distinct. It was a woman's voice, soft and sorrowful, calling for help.

Sarah froze. "Did you hear that?"

The others nodded, their faces pale.

The whispers grew into sobs, echoing off the stone walls. "Please... help me... I can't see... where is Clara?"

Suddenly, the lights on their flashlights flickered, and Jake's camera cut out with a harsh screech of static. In the sudden darkness, the sobbing turned to a low, raspy moan. Something moved in the shadows—something that didn't walk, but slithered, dragging itself across the cold stone floor.

Emma screamed as a hand, cold and wet, brushed against her ankle. She kicked wildly, stumbling backward into Mark, who caught her just before she fell. "We need to get out of here!" Mark shouted, panic rising in his voice.

But the basement door slammed shut above them, trapping them inside.

The whispers returned, louder now, and from the far corner of the room, they saw her—Margaret Wither. Her figure was pale and skeletal, her eyes hollow and black, her mouth hanging open in a silent scream. She crawled toward them, her bones cracking with every movement. Behind her, shadowy forms began to take shape, looming over the group. They could see Clara, a small, ghostly figure standing behind her mother, her eyes wide and filled with fear.

"Why did you leave us?" Margaret's voice rasped, her head twitching unnaturally as she inched closer. "Why did you let us die?"

Sarah tried to scream, but no sound came out. Jake dropped his camera, backing away, but there was nowhere to go. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows creeping toward them, cold and hungry.

Mark grabbed Sarah's arm, pulling her toward the stairs. "We have to break the door down!" he yelled. But as they ran, the basement itself seemed to shift, warping around them. No matter how fast they moved, the door stayed out of reach, the whispers growing into a deafening roar.

"Leave this place!" a voice boomed, shaking the very foundations of the house.

And then, silence. The shadows were gone. Margaret and Clara had vanished. The basement door creaked open, and the cold night air flooded in.

The four students bolted from the house, not daring to look back. As they reached the edge of the property, Sarah turned to see the house once more. In the window of the second floor, a dark figure stood watching them, its eyes glowing faintly in the night.

No one spoke of what happened that night. But every year, on the anniversary of their visit, Sarah would dream of the house. In her dreams, the whispers never stopped.

And she knew—one day, it would call her back.