Horror Stories(Creepypasta)

11☆Whispers From The Woods

Another story!

Enjoy~

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I remember when I first moved into this accused house. I was 10 years old and loved all the things a 10 year old boy, you know; climbing trees, catching bugs, playing cowboys and Indians, those sorts of things.

We moved from the hussle and bussle of "The Big Smoke" to the small Cheshire village of Helbsy.

Helbsy with its prominent red stone hill, sits nestled at the top of the Mersey estuary, sports a thick covering gnarled trees misshapen by the strong onshore winds that rush from their home on the Irish sea, funneled by the estuary coming to the rest at the foot of the hill.

The village is also surrounded by a vast expansion of marsh, that holds a depressing sullen atmosphere, even on a clear, sunny day, the various wetland birds adding constant chorus shrill cries.

Our new country home was, and still is, an old Jacobean house with a sprawling garden to the rear scaling to the rear, scaling the looming red hill behind it--a venerable playground for a 10 year old boy.

The first thing I noticed upon moving to Helsby was how quiet 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 the flow of noise emanating from the Liverpool streets.

I would sit up in my bed for hours, listening to 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 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 was a fractious relationship with my mother wanting more for herself, and indeed us, also my poor father being unable to provide.

The whispers started during a tempestuous storm that raged outside my window, the wind and rain battering the rust colored 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", "Dannnniel" it repeated, perhaps four or five times.

I quickly flicked on my bedside light, but couldn't for the life of me, 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 as my imagination and eventually dozed off into a sound, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, downstairs over breakfast I asked, "Mother, did you call for me last night?"

She said she hadn't, and turned to ask my father the same. He said he hasn't as well. He told me that old houses make strange noises, and with the sounds from last nights vicious storm that I shouldn't worry, that I would soon get used to them.

He joked teasingly, saying that my over active imagination was playing tricks on me. Oh, how I wish that were true.

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That day I ventured outside to inspect the storm damage. Merkey grey clouds still hung to the hills summit, giving it the impression that it was much more intense than it was.