The Whispering Walls of Black Hollows

 

The Whispering Walls of Black Hollows

No one mentions a home in Black Hollow, not even in low tones. In courteous circles, at least not so. At the end of a forgotten street, its walls bowed with age, its windows dim and empty. The people say it's cursed; the walls whisper through the night calling the names of anyone who would venture inside.

Ethan Grayson had no time for such rubbish. He viewed the ancient Black Hollow manor as a treasure, a real estate investor known for transforming haunted houses into fashionable retreats. Stepping off his car with a cocky smirk, he arrived only a little before sunset. The house smelled of damp rot leaking from within as the wood boards were bent and the paint was peeling. Just so.

He stepped inside after pushing the weighty door. Swirling in the faint light seeping through the dirty windows, dust hung concretely in the air. The quiet was stifling. Later, a noise—not loud. A whisper.

Ethan stopped completely. There was nothing in the house. The realtor had told him that for certainty.

His voice felt little in the vast room, hello?

Absolutely nothing. Only the sound of the old building settling.

He dismissed the sound by shaking his head and starting to labor on. Pacing around the house, he took phone notes. kitchen rotted cabinets Living room fireplace falling apart. Bedrooms upstairs—structurally solid but very creepy.

As he approached the corridor going to the main staircase, he heard it once more.

hushed voice.

Not the wind. properties moving rat & synthesize Voice Soft, airy, emanating from inside the exact walls.

Ethan...

He grew cold in his blood. Theirs is. It had murmured his name is.

Rising panic was battled by his logical intellect. He muttered, "It's just my imagination." "A draft inside the walls." Old pipes.."

 

He walked toward the stairs, but the murmuring increased as his foot struck the first step. More speaking now. murmuring. Urgent.

Then a floorboard creaked from above.

One could find something—or someone—above there......

Ethan's fingers closed into fists. An old house was not going to fool him. Each step creaked under his weight as he ascended. Ahead of him the corridor ran toward doors arranged as sinister mouths the top of the structure. The whispering was more vociferous here, slithering across the walls.

At the far end of the passage a shadow flickered.

Ethan stopped his breath. Barely discernible in the poor light, a form was in the last door.

“Who’s there?" His voice shook nevertheless.

None found. Just the whispering, pressing in from all directions.

He walked ahead. The sculpture didn't go anything. It was tall, boney, and its face hidden behind dark ness. Ethan gulped painfully; his gut told him to go.

It twitched next. It jerked its head at a strange angle. And it handled.

In the chorus of whines emanating from the walls, not in a tone.

From us never left.

Rumbling replaced around him and he stumbled back. The walls shook; about his feet, the floorboards rattled. The building was alive, breath, and hungry.

The drawing lunged.

Turning, Ethan raced down the staircase as the whispers followed him and assaulted his mind. Gasping, heart pounding, he burst down the front door and into the chilly night air.

The building was mute once more—its black windows gazing, its whispering walls ready.

Ethan never returned to.

Its value falling further every yearly, the Black Hollow estate still stands practically untouched. No clients. no visitors Nothing but the whispers tell the names of people coming in.

Waiting for the next one to stay here.