Creepypasta Stories And More

Whispers in the Woods

I remember when I first moved into this accursed house, I was 10 years old and loved all the things a ten-year-old boy loves, you know; climbing trees, catching bugs, playing cowboys and Indians, those sorts of things. We had moved from the hustle and bustle of "The Big Smoke" to the small Cheshire village of Helsby. Helsby with its prominent red stone hill sits nestled at the top of the Mersey estuary the hill sports a thick covering of gnarled trees misshapen by the strong onshore winds that rush from their home on the Irish Sea funneled by estuary coming to rest at the foot of the hill. The village is also surrounded by a vast expanse of marsh that holds a depressing sullen atmosphere even on a clear sunny day, the various wetland birds adding a constant chorus shrill cries. Our new country home was and still is an old Jacobean house with a sprawling garden to the rear scaling the looming red hill behind – a venerable playground for a 10-year-old boy.

The first thing I noticed upon moving to Helsby was how quite it was at night, you could hear a pin drop and this dead silence was quite unsettling having being used to the constant ebb and flow of noise emanating from the Liverpool streets. I would sit up in bed for hours listening for any sort of noise fancying I could hear people talking or the pitter patter of mice scurrying around in the dark. Sometimes though I thought I could hear other 'things'! Things more sinister, things I knew were there just beyond my sight, hidden in the inky shadows.

The first time I became aware of the low barely audible whisper was maybe 3 or 4 weeks after we had moved. I was not frightened or worried by this as I merely assumed it was my parents talking or exchanging some heated words as they often did. There's was a fractious relationship with my mother wanting more for herself and indeed us and my poor farther being unable to provide. The whispers started during a tempestuous storm that raged outside my window, the wind and rain battering the rust coloured front of our house. I had just finished reading about and was dozing off when I thought I heard my name being called in a low muffled tone. "Daniel", "Dannnnniel" it repeated perhaps four or five times. I quickly flicked on my bedside light but couldn't for the life of me couldn't figure out where my name was being called from. I sat there in the dark the covers pulled up to my chin. I must have sat for an hour or more straining to hear. In the end I put it down to my imagination and eventually dozed off into a sound dreamless sleep. The next morning downstairs over breakfast I asked, "Mother did you call me last night"? She said that she hadn't and turning to my father asking the same. He had not either. He told me that old houses make strange noises and with the sounds of last night's vicious storm that I shouldn't worry, that I would soon get used to them. He jokingly teased saying that my over active imagination was playing tricks on me. Oh, how I wish that were true.

That day I ventured outside to inspect the storm damage. Murky grey clouds still hung to the hills summit giving it the impression it was much more immense than it was. Looking up into the tree line I was amazed by the volume of old trees that had fallen in the night lying motionless on the hillside like fallen soldiers. Many of these trees appeared to have rotted from the inside out, probably due to some insidious fungus slowly draining the old trees life.

That evening after dinner I sat at a desk in the front room doodling in a great scrapbook quietly nestled in a mouldy cobweb filled alcove when again heard that menacing whispering of my name, "Daniel", "Dannnnniel" I turned looking around the room but nothing was there. It couldn't be the storm now as there wasn't one so as my father said I put it down to my over active imagination and continued to doodle when I again heard "Daniel!" this time followed by the quick succession of pattering feet. I jumped up knocking my chair backwards to the ground. I slowly approached the old mahogany sideboard where I had last heard the pattering of small unseen feet come to a stop only to find nothing there. Confused and frightened by this I crouched down and looked under the sideboard finding only dust filled cobwebs, however as I stood up my fingers moved over a series of small scratches at shin height on the sideboard leg as if some miniature human-like figure had been hiding, watching me with tiny clawed hands griped in around the leg of the sideboard.