It was on a cold autumn night that Mark found himself in front of the old manor. The structure had been abandoned for decades, its wooden frame rotting, and its once majestic windows shattered. Yet, something about the place drew him in. A dare, they called it — his friends, drunk and reckless, had bet him he wouldn’t spend a night in the cursed house on the hill. Mark had laughed it off, but now, standing before the decaying structure, he felt a chill crawl up his spine.
The wind howled through the trees, their branches scratching against one another like skeletal fingers. Mark took a deep breath and stepped inside, the wooden door creaking loudly in protest. As he entered, the air grew colder. He flicked on his flashlight and surveyed his surroundings. The foyer was a mess — broken furniture strewn about, a thick layer of dust coating everything, and a grand staircase that led to the second floor. The wallpaper peeled off in long strips, revealing dark, moldy patches underneath.
Mark's footsteps echoed in the silence. He made his way to the parlor, the flashlight beam trembling slightly in his grip. The room was vast, with an old piano in one corner and a fireplace filled with ash. As he approached, he noticed a painting hanging above the mantel. It was a portrait of a woman in a white dress, her face partially obscured by shadows. Her eyes, however, seemed to follow him as he moved.
Mark shivered and turned away, trying to shake off the creeping feeling that had settled in his chest. He reminded himself this was just an old house, and there was nothing here but dust and memories. Yet, as he turned his attention back to the room, he heard it — a faint whisper, so soft he could barely discern the words.
"Leave…"
He spun around, the flashlight beam darting wildly across the walls. There was no one there. Just the empty room, the portrait, and the piano. Mark chuckled nervously. “Okay, very funny,” he called out, convinced his friends were playing a trick on him. “You got me. Come on out.”
But there was no response, only the wind whistling through the broken windows. Mark felt his skin prickle. He moved to the center of the room, listening intently, but all he could hear was his own breathing.
He decided to explore more of the house. Maybe there was something else here that could explain the strange whispering. He headed up the staircase, each step creaking under his weight. As he reached the top, he felt a sudden gust of cold air, almost like someone had brushed past him. He froze, his breath misting in front of him.
“Hello?” he called out again, his voice echoing down the hallway.
Silence.
He continued down the corridor, opening doors at random. Most of the rooms were empty, with broken furniture and faded curtains. But as he reached the end of the hallway, he found a door that was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, and his flashlight revealed a small bedroom.
It was strangely intact. The bed was neatly made, with a quilt folded at the foot. A child's rocking chair sat by the window, and a small wooden toy box rested against the far wall. Mark frowned. This room didn’t look like the rest of the house; it looked almost… lived-in.
He took a step inside, and the door slammed shut behind him with a deafening bang. He whipped around, his heart pounding, and grabbed the doorknob, twisting it frantically. It wouldn’t budge. He banged on the door, shouting, “Let me out!”
Then he heard it again — the whisper.
“Stay…”
This time it was closer, clearer, as if someone were standing right beside him. Mark’s breath caught in his throat. He spun around, shining his flashlight wildly, but the room was empty. The rocking chair creaked, moving back and forth slowly.
He stared at it, his pulse racing. He took a step toward it, and the whispers grew louder, filling his ears.
“Stay… with us…”
Mark clutched his head, the voices growing louder, more insistent. It wasn’t just one voice now, but several, overlapping and echoing. He backed away, his hands fumbling for the doorknob again. His fingers brushed something cold and wet on the wall. He pulled his hand back and saw it was covered in dark, red liquid.
Blood.
Panic surged through him. He threw himself against the door, slamming it with his shoulder. It gave way suddenly, sending him stumbling into the hallway. He didn’t stop to catch his breath; he sprinted back down the staircase, his flashlight swinging wildly. He reached the foyer and was about to bolt out the door when he heard it again.
“Don’t leave…”
The voice was right by his ear. He felt a cold breath on his neck and turned, his heart pounding. There was no one there. Just the empty hall, the decaying walls, and the darkness.
But then he saw them — shadows moving, shifting along the walls, their forms twisted and distorted. They seemed to be reaching for him, their long fingers stretching out.
Mark stumbled back, his chest heaving, fear gripping his heart. He turned and ran toward the door, but it slammed shut before he could reach it. He pulled at the handle, but it wouldn’t open. He banged on the door, shouting, “Let me out! Let me out!”
The whispers grew louder, surrounding him. “Stay… stay with us… forever…”
The shadows closed in, creeping along the walls, their forms growing darker, more solid. He could see their faces now — pale, hollow-eyed, mouths moving silently as they whispered. He backed away, his mind racing, his heart pounding in his ears.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, cold and firm. He screamed and spun around, but there was nothing there. Just the darkness and the shadows.
Then, one of the shadows stepped forward, its form shifting into that of a woman in a white dress — the woman from the portrait. Her face was pale, her eyes dark and empty. She reached out a hand, her mouth moving without sound. But Mark heard her voice in his mind.
“Stay… with me…”
Mark felt his strength leaving him, his legs growing weak. The shadows closed in, their whispers filling his ears, drowning out his thoughts. He sank to his knees, his vision blurring, his body trembling.
The last thing he saw before the darkness consumed him was the woman’s face, her eyes locked on his, her cold smile widening.
The next morning, Mark’s friends came looking for him. They found the door to the manor wide open, but there was no sign of Mark. Just an empty house and a faint whispering that seemed to follow them as they left, a cold wind blowing through the broken windows.
And in the parlor, above the mantel, the portrait of the woman had changed. Her eyes now seemed to gaze out with a strange, satisfied look, and beside her, there was a new figure — a young man, his face twisted in silent terror.
