The Whispering House

In the small of Lin, there stood a dilapidated house at the end of Oak Street. Its windows were boarded up, and the paint had long peeled away, revealing the gray, rotting wood beneath. The locals whispered that no one had lived there since the tragic night when the Petersons vanished, leaving behind only their cat, which was found dead on the porch, its eyes wide with terror.

One stormy night, a traveler, seeking shelter from the relentless rain, stumbled upon this forsaken place. The door creaked ominously as he pushed it open, revealing a hallway lined with shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. The air was thick with the scent of decay.

As he ventured deeper, the whispers began—soft at first, like a distant conversation, but growing louder with every step he took. They didn't sound like words but more like the rustling of leaves or the murmuring of a river, yet they carried an unmistakable sense of urgency, of warning.

He reached the living room, where the whispers turned into a cacophony of voices, overlapping, pleading, and then screaming. The traveler, now desperate to leave, turned back only to find the exit replaced by a solid wall. The voices grew clearer, repeating a single phrase, "You shouldn't have come here."

In the morning, when the rain had ceased, the locals found the traveler's car still parked outside the house, but there was no sign of him. They never found his body, but sometimes, on stormy nights, new visitors report hearing whispers from within the house, whispers that sound eerily like a new voice joining the chorus of the damned.