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Whispers from the Grave
"Everybody goes a Little Mad."
Anthony Perkins (Psycho)
🪦🌹
A #WRITCO Horror
🪢 🧱 🏚️
WHICH
SIDE
IS
THIS
SIDE?
🌈 📖
"I ain't afraid of no ghost," I murmured to myself, echoing Bill Murray's infamous words from that classic flick. But let's be real, unlike him, I actually knew what the hell I was getting into. My name's John, and I'm the guy you call when things go bump in the night, and not the kind of bumps that come from a teenager's tryst in the attic.
"John," Mrs. Baker had whispered over the phone, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm, "please, you've got to help us. The house is alive with whispers."
"Whispers?" I questioned, scribbling down notes. "What kind of whispers, Mrs. Baker?"
Her response was a shaky breath. "The kind that make your skin crawl and your soul ache."
The house loomed before me, a ghastly silhouette against the moonlit sky. It was one of those places that looked like it had seen better days, and by better, I mean centuries. The paint was peeling, the shutters were askew, and the yard was a wild mess of weeds and dead flowers. I'd seen my fair share of haunted houses, but this one had a certain... je ne sais quoi. A sense of malevolence that tickled the back of my neck.
As I approached the creaking front door, I could almost feel the house watching me, as if it knew I'd come to uncover its secrets. The chill in the air was palpable, wrapping around me like a cold, damp shroud. The wind picked up, rustling through the trees, and I swore I heard a distant laugh—or was it the chime of a child's swing?
The inside wasn't much better. The walls were stained with what I hoped was just water damage, but my gut told me otherwise. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the floorboards groaned beneath my feet like they were sharing my own dark secrets.
"Mrs. Baker, where are these whispers coming from?" I called out, flicking on my flashlight.
Her voice was a tremble. "Everywhere. Nowhere. It's like they're all around us, but when you try to listen, they're gone."
I nodded, pretending to understand, as I scanned the room with my EMF reader. The needle hovered, unmoving, as if the house was biding its time.
"John, do you think they're real?" she asked, clutching her cardigan tightly.
"Well," I began, weighing my words, "sometimes our minds play tricks on us."
But the way the shadows danced on the walls, the sudden drops in temperature, the faint smell of something rotting just under the surface of the potpourri... I knew she wasn't imagining things. And neither was I.
The investigation began with the usual rigmarole: setting up cameras, laying out the EVP recorder, and the like. Mrs. Baker hovered, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. I tried to reassure her, but the knot in my stomach grew tighter with every passing minute.
"John," she whispered, tugging on my sleeve, "I think they're here."
"Who's here, Mrs. Baker?"
Her eyes grew wide, and she pointed at a spot just behind me. "Them."
I turned, expecting to see nothing but dust and shadows, but what I saw sent a cold shiver down my spine. A figure, transparent and twisted, hovered in the doorway. It had the shape of a woman, but the face was a mask of pain and rage. And the whispers grew louder, morphing into a cacophony of screams and pleas for help.
"It's okay," I lied, trying to keep my voice steady. "We're just getting started."
But as the night unfolded, the whispers grew into a symphony of horrors, and I couldn't ignore the fact that maybe, just maybe, I'd bitten off more than I could chew.
The first room was the nursery, and it was there that the whispers grew to a crescendo. The crib rocked back and forth of its own accord, the mobile spinning wildly, the plastic animals hanging from it twisted into grotesque shapes. The air grew colder, and the smell of decay intensified until it was all I could do not to retch.
"What do you want?" I shouted into the void, my voice echoing through the house. "Why are you here?"
The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of voices, all speaking at once in a language I couldn't quite understand. It was like trying to listen to a radio tuned between stations, each voice a desperate cry for help. And then, among the din, a single word grew clear: "Vengeance."
I set up my equipment, the cold sweat on my brow mixing with the dust that clung to everything. The whispers grew more insistent, and the shadows began to coalesce into forms that slithered along the walls. I caught glimpses of them out of the...
Anthony Perkins (Psycho)
🪦🌹
A #WRITCO Horror
🪢 🧱 🏚️
WHICH
SIDE
IS
THIS
SIDE?
🌈 📖
"I ain't afraid of no ghost," I murmured to myself, echoing Bill Murray's infamous words from that classic flick. But let's be real, unlike him, I actually knew what the hell I was getting into. My name's John, and I'm the guy you call when things go bump in the night, and not the kind of bumps that come from a teenager's tryst in the attic.
"John," Mrs. Baker had whispered over the phone, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm, "please, you've got to help us. The house is alive with whispers."
"Whispers?" I questioned, scribbling down notes. "What kind of whispers, Mrs. Baker?"
Her response was a shaky breath. "The kind that make your skin crawl and your soul ache."
The house loomed before me, a ghastly silhouette against the moonlit sky. It was one of those places that looked like it had seen better days, and by better, I mean centuries. The paint was peeling, the shutters were askew, and the yard was a wild mess of weeds and dead flowers. I'd seen my fair share of haunted houses, but this one had a certain... je ne sais quoi. A sense of malevolence that tickled the back of my neck.
As I approached the creaking front door, I could almost feel the house watching me, as if it knew I'd come to uncover its secrets. The chill in the air was palpable, wrapping around me like a cold, damp shroud. The wind picked up, rustling through the trees, and I swore I heard a distant laugh—or was it the chime of a child's swing?
The inside wasn't much better. The walls were stained with what I hoped was just water damage, but my gut told me otherwise. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the floorboards groaned beneath my feet like they were sharing my own dark secrets.
"Mrs. Baker, where are these whispers coming from?" I called out, flicking on my flashlight.
Her voice was a tremble. "Everywhere. Nowhere. It's like they're all around us, but when you try to listen, they're gone."
I nodded, pretending to understand, as I scanned the room with my EMF reader. The needle hovered, unmoving, as if the house was biding its time.
"John, do you think they're real?" she asked, clutching her cardigan tightly.
"Well," I began, weighing my words, "sometimes our minds play tricks on us."
But the way the shadows danced on the walls, the sudden drops in temperature, the faint smell of something rotting just under the surface of the potpourri... I knew she wasn't imagining things. And neither was I.
The investigation began with the usual rigmarole: setting up cameras, laying out the EVP recorder, and the like. Mrs. Baker hovered, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. I tried to reassure her, but the knot in my stomach grew tighter with every passing minute.
"John," she whispered, tugging on my sleeve, "I think they're here."
"Who's here, Mrs. Baker?"
Her eyes grew wide, and she pointed at a spot just behind me. "Them."
I turned, expecting to see nothing but dust and shadows, but what I saw sent a cold shiver down my spine. A figure, transparent and twisted, hovered in the doorway. It had the shape of a woman, but the face was a mask of pain and rage. And the whispers grew louder, morphing into a cacophony of screams and pleas for help.
"It's okay," I lied, trying to keep my voice steady. "We're just getting started."
But as the night unfolded, the whispers grew into a symphony of horrors, and I couldn't ignore the fact that maybe, just maybe, I'd bitten off more than I could chew.
The first room was the nursery, and it was there that the whispers grew to a crescendo. The crib rocked back and forth of its own accord, the mobile spinning wildly, the plastic animals hanging from it twisted into grotesque shapes. The air grew colder, and the smell of decay intensified until it was all I could do not to retch.
"What do you want?" I shouted into the void, my voice echoing through the house. "Why are you here?"
The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of voices, all speaking at once in a language I couldn't quite understand. It was like trying to listen to a radio tuned between stations, each voice a desperate cry for help. And then, among the din, a single word grew clear: "Vengeance."
I set up my equipment, the cold sweat on my brow mixing with the dust that clung to everything. The whispers grew more insistent, and the shadows began to coalesce into forms that slithered along the walls. I caught glimpses of them out of the...
