The Whisperer - by Valerie Tan

PART II: THE RETURN

Ten years had passed since that night at the Wither House, but the memories clung to Sarah like a shadow. The dreams were relentless, becoming more vivid with each passing year. Margaret's hollow eyes, Clara's ghostly figure, and the oppressive whispers haunted her every night. She had tried to bury the fear, convincing herself that what they had seen was a trick of the mind, but she knew the truth deep down. The house wasn't finished with them.

It started with a phone call.

"Sarah, it's Mark," the voice on the other end said, tense and shaky. She hadn't spoken to him in years—not since they had all drifted apart, each trying to move on in their own way.

"Mark? What's going on?" Sarah asked, her pulse quickening.

"It's Emma... she's missing."

Sarah felt the ground shift beneath her. "Missing? What do you mean?"

Mark's voice trembled. "She told me she was having the dreams again. The same ones we all had after that night. A few days ago, she said she was going back... to the house."

Sarah's heart sank. "No..."

"I tried to stop her, Sarah. I swear I did. But she was convinced—convinced it was calling her, that it needed her to... to stop something. She sounded... off. Like she wasn't herself. And now I can't reach her. It's been two days."

Sarah sat in silence, her mind racing. The house. It had always been there, lurking in the back of their minds, a looming threat they had managed to avoid for years. But now it was calling them back, just as she had feared.

"Meet me at the old road tonight," Mark said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We have to find her."

---

The sky was a blanket of deep gray when Sarah arrived at the entrance to the dirt road. It looked the same as it had a decade ago, the trees gnarled and looming, as if they were part of the house's curse. Mark was waiting, his face pale and drawn, his hands shaking as he gripped the steering wheel of his truck.

"Do you think... she's still in there?" Sarah asked as she climbed in beside him.

Mark didn't answer right away. He simply stared at the road ahead, his knuckles white. "I don't know, but I have a bad feeling."

They drove in silence, the familiar sense of dread growing with every mile. When the house finally came into view, it was worse than Sarah remembered. The years hadn't been kind to it—its walls were more decayed, the windows completely gone, like empty eye sockets staring into nothingness. Yet, despite its dilapidated state, the house seemed... alive.

The air around it was thick, heavy, as though it was breathing. Waiting.

The two of them stepped out of the truck, and as soon as Sarah's feet hit the ground, the whispers began. Faint, almost imperceptible at first, but unmistakable.

"Sarah..."

She froze, her blood turning to ice. "Did you hear that?"

Mark nodded, his face pale. "It's her. Emma's voice."

They moved toward the house, each step a struggle against the mounting pressure in the air. The front door hung open, just as it had before, but this time, it didn't feel like an invitation. It felt like a trap.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet, save for the distant murmurs that echoed through the halls. The same smell of decay and rot clung to everything, thicker now, as though time had amplified the darkness festering within the walls. Sarah's flashlight flickered, casting long shadows that danced on the peeling wallpaper.

"Emma?" Mark called out, his voice cracking.

There was no response, but the whispers grew louder. They were coming from the basement.

Sarah's stomach churned as they approached the door, memories of that night flooding back in a torrent of fear and dread. The door was already ajar, revealing the familiar staircase leading into the blackness below. The smell was overpowering now, a sickening mixture of rot and chemicals.

"We have to go down," Mark said, though he sounded far from certain.

They descended slowly, each step creaking beneath their weight. The basement was as they remembered it—vast, cold, and filled with the same sinister symbols carved into the walls. But something was different. The air was colder, heavier, and the whispers... they were no longer soft. They were a chorus, rising and falling in an eerie, disjointed harmony.

At the center of the room, near the old wooden table, was Emma. She stood with her back to them, her head tilted slightly to one side as though listening to something only she could hear.

"Emma!" Mark rushed forward, but as soon as he touched her, she spun around. Her eyes were vacant, black pits staring into nothingness, her skin as pale as death. She smiled—a slow, unnatural smile that sent shivers down Sarah's spine.

"It's not Emma anymore," Sarah whispered, pulling Mark back.

The whispers surged, filling the room with a cacophony of voices. Shadows began to move across the walls, writhing and shifting as if alive. From the darkness, the figures of Margaret and Clara Wither emerged, their forms more solid than before, more real.

"You came back," Margaret rasped, her voice like dead leaves scraping across stone. "Just as we knew you would."

"What do you want?" Sarah demanded, her voice trembling.

Margaret's smile twisted into something dark and malevolent. "The house is hungry. It must feed. And now, you will stay."

The shadows surged forward, wrapping around Emma, who let out a horrible, inhuman laugh. She began to change, her body contorting, bones cracking as she morphed into something twisted and grotesque.

Sarah and Mark stumbled back, their hearts racing. The door to the basement slammed shut with a deafening crash, sealing them inside once more.

"No," Sarah whispered, realizing too late the trap they had walked into. The house had never stopped calling them. It had simply been waiting for the right moment to finish what it had started.

The whispers became deafening, drowning out their screams as the darkness closed in.