short fiction · 2026-10-12

The Whispering House

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The house stood on a narrow lane, its windows like blind eyes watching the evening. As I stepped inside, faint murmurs rose from the walls, as if the very timber were breathing and sharing stories long forgotten. Each floorboard creaked in rhythm with an unseen cadence, and the air carried a soft, metallic tang that seemed to pulse with memory. I followed the sound to a room where a single chair waited, its surface etched with symbols that glowed faintly when my fingertips brushed them. The whispers grew clearer, forming words I could not quite parse, yet they felt like a promise — or a warning — waiting for me to listen.