Night Time Story: The Whispers in the Old House
The house had been empty for years. No one lived there, no one visited. But every night, as the wind howled through the trees, a voice whispered from the darkness.
It always called a name.
“Jonathan.”
Jonathan had never been inside. No one had. But the whispers never stopped. Each night, they drifted through the streets, slipping through windows and curling into dreams.
One night, Jonathan couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped onto the porch, heart hammering. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
Then, a whisper.
“You forgot me.”
Jonathan turned to run—but the door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the air was thick with dust. The floorboards groaned beneath his feet. And then, on the wall, he saw it.
A portrait. Faded, cracked with age. A boy stood there, smiling.
A boy who looked exactly like him.
The whisper came again, softer this time.
“You forgot me.”
Jonathan ran.
He never spoke of the house again.
But every night, just before sleep, he swore he heard it.
A whisper.
Calling his name.
By Elias Fairstone
