The whispering town

The engine of Elena’s car rumbled to a stop, coughing out a final shudder before falling silent. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring through the cracked windshield at the deserted streets of Wescroft. The town seemed to glare back at her, daring her to step out and reclaim the past she had tried so hard to bury.

Everything about this place looked the same, yet completely different. The air smelled stale, as if the wind hadn’t passed through in years. A faint layer of ash coated the sidewalks, and weeds clawed their way through cracks in the pavement like skeletal fingers. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched unnaturally, curving around corners as if avoiding the light.

Elena knew she shouldn’t have come back. Wescroft was a place of tragedy, a scar on the map, forever marked by the mining accident that claimed the lives of so many—including her own childhood friends. But when the letter arrived last week, she hadn’t been able to ignore it. There had been no address, no name—just a single sentence written in a child’s delicate script:

“Come find me where we last whispered our secrets.”

No one else knew about that place, about the treehouse in the woods where she and her friends had spent countless hours sharing their dreams and fears, spinning stories of ghosts and monsters that would one day become all too real.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint sound. A whisper. Elena’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced at the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see a familiar face peering back at her from the backseat. But there was no one. Just her wide, frightened eyes staring at the empty town behind her.

She forced herself to open the car door and step out. The gravel crunched beneath her boots, each step echoing loudly in the silence. She looked around, scanning the abandoned houses that lined the street. Once vibrant and full of life, they now stood as hollow shells—paint peeling, windows shattered, doors hanging off their hinges.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding small and fragile against the oppressive stillness. Of course, no one answered. No one lived here anymore. She was completely—

Crack.

Elena spun around. The noise had come from the house across the street, the old Peterson place. Its front door, which had been ajar, was now fully open, swinging gently back and forth as if recently disturbed. She stared at it, waiting for something—anything—to appear. The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, but the doorway remained empty.

“Just the wind,” she muttered, though she didn’t believe it. She glanced at the car. She could still turn back, leave this place and pretend she’d never received the letter. But her gaze drifted back to the Peterson house. There was something about it, something pulling her toward it.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed the street. The gravel beneath her feet seemed louder now, every crunch sending a shiver up her spine. When she reached the porch, she hesitated, staring into the darkness beyond the doorway. A faint scent of decay and mildew wafted out, making her gag.

“Get it together,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just a house.”

She stepped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight, their groan reverberating through the empty rooms. Dust motes floated in the thin beams of light filtering through the dirty windows, dancing lazily as if caught in a slow-motion dream.

The living room was just as she remembered—worn floral wallpaper, a cracked mirror above the mantelpiece, and an old rocking chair in the corner. But there was something new. A small, faded photograph lay on the ground in the middle of the room. Elena’s breath hitched as she picked it up.

It was a picture of her and her friends—Amy, Mark, and Joshua—standing in front of the treehouse. She traced the edges of the photo with trembling fingers. It was the same photograph that had been lost all those years ago, the one she had searched for in vain after the accident.

“How is this…?” she murmured, a chill creeping up her spine. She turned the photo over, and her blood ran cold.

There, scrawled in the same childlike handwriting, were the words: “We’re still here.”

The floorboards overhead creaked, the sound echoing through the empty house. Elena froze, clutching the photograph tightly. Someone—or something—was upstairs. A part of her screamed to run, to leave and never look back. But she forced herself to take a step forward, then another, until she was standing at the foot of the staircase.

“Hello?” she called out again, her voice barely a whisper.

Silence.

She took a deep breath and placed her foot on the first step. It let out a groan of protest. Then the next, and the next. The air grew colder as she ascended, the shadows deepening with each step. By the time she reached the landing, her breath was visible in the air, hanging like a mist.

She stood outside the door to her old bedroom, the one she had never dared enter again after the night her friends disappeared. The door was slightly ajar. With a trembling hand, she pushed it open.

The room was exactly as she had left it—right down to the faded pink wallpaper and the bed covered in stuffed animals. But there was something on the bed, something that shouldn’t have been there.

A row of small, handmade dolls lay lined up on the covers, each one stitched with crude faces and mismatched buttons for eyes. Elena’s heart pounded as she stepped closer. She recognized them. They were replicas of her friends—Amy’s curly hair, Mark’s baseball cap, Joshua’s glasses.

And at the end of the row was a new doll. One she had never seen before.

It was a doll of herself.

Elena reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the fabric. As soon as she touched it, the room seemed to shudder, the walls creaking as if the house itself was waking up.

Then the whispers began.

Soft, sibilant voices filled the room, rising from every corner, from the walls, the floor, the ceiling. They spoke in a language Elena didn’t understand, a low, guttural murmur that grew louder and louder until it was deafening.

She stumbled back, clutching the doll to her chest, her mind racing.

What is happening? What is this place?

But deep down, she already knew the answer. This was no longer the Wescroft she remembered. This was a place of echoes, of lost memories and broken souls, and it had been waiting for her to come back.

The whispers stopped as abruptly as they had begun. Elena stood there, shaking, her eyes wide and unblinking.

Then, from behind her, a child’s voice—clear and familiar—whispered softly:

“Welcome home, Elena.”

She turned slowly, her heart pounding.

Standing in the doorway was a small figure, no more than eight years old, with long, dark hair and empty black eyes.

It was herself, a younger version of Elena, staring up at her with a smile that was both innocent and terrifying.

“Come play with us,” the child whispered, holding out a hand. “We’ve been waiting so long.”

And as the shadows in the room deepened, closing in around her, Elena knew with a sinking dread that she might never leave Wescroft again.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***