THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

Clara stood motionless, her heart hammering against her ribs. The whisper had been so faint, yet unmistakable. The voice of a child, pleading. 

"Who's there?" she called again, her voice trembling. The flashlight beam jittered across the room as her hand shook. 

There was absolute silence everywhere.

She strained her ears, listening for any sign of movement. The house seemed to hold its breath as if waiting. Gathering her courage, Clara stepped out of the small room and into the hallway, the wooden floor creaking beneath her weight. 

The laughter came again, faint and fleeting, as though the child was playing a cruel game of hide-and-seek. It seemed to drift from upstairs. 

"This is crazy," Clara whispered to herself. Her logical mind screamed at her to turn back, to stay put until daylight. But something about the voice—a mix of innocence and sorrow—drew her forward. 

With hesitant steps, she climbed the rickety staircase, each step groaning under her weight. The flashlight illuminated peeling wallpaper and dusty picture frames, their glass cracked and fogged with grime. 

"Don't leave me..." the voice whispered again, closer now. 

Clara's breath caught in her throat. She followed the sound to the end of the hallway, where a door stood ajar. A cold draft seeped through the opening, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender. 

The Locked Room

She pushed the door open, revealing a small bedroom. The moonlight filtered through the broken window, casting an eerie glow over the room. It was sparsely furnished: a bed with a tattered canopy, a wardrobe missing one of its doors, and a small table with a cracked porcelain doll sitting on it. 

Clara stepped inside, her flashlight sweeping the room. The air felt heavy as if the walls were soaked in sorrow. 

And then she saw it—a set of scratches on the inside of the door, as though someone had clawed at it desperately. Her stomach twisted. 

"Hello?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. 

Behind her, the wardrobe creaked. Clara spun around the flashlight beam landing on its open door. Her pulse quickened as she stepped closer, her heart screaming for her to turn and run. 

As she reached out to touch the wardrobe door, a sudden gust of wind slammed the bedroom door shut. Clara jumped, stifling a scream. 

"Don't leave me..." the voice came again, this time right beside her. 

She spun around, but the room was empty. 

And then she saw her—a faint figure standing in the corner. It was a girl, no older than eight, with long, tangled hair and a pale, translucent appearance. Her eyes were wide, filled with both fear and longing. She wore a tattered nightgown, and her bare feet hovered just above the floor. 

Clara stumbled backward, her flashlight slipping from her grasp and clattering to the floor. The girl tilted her head, her expression unreadable. 

"Who... who are you?" Clara stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. 

The girl didn't answer. Instead, she raised a hand and pointed to the scratches on the door. 

"She locked me in," the girl said, her voice soft and distant. 

Clara's knees felt weak. "Who locked you in?" 

The girl's expression darkened, her lips trembling. "Auntie." 

The Ghost's Story

The room grew colder, and Clara hugged herself tightly. "Why did she lock you in here?" 

"She said I was bad," the girl replied, her voice laced with sadness. "She said no one could know about me." 

Clara's mind raced. The girl wasn't alive—she couldn't be. But her presence felt so real, so tangible. 

"What's your name?" Clara asked, her voice softening. 

"Lila," the girl whispered. 

"Lila," Clara repeated. "I'm Clara. How long have you been here?" 

Lila's gaze drifted to the window, where the moonlight painted her translucent form in silver. "A long time. Auntie comes once a month... but she hasn't come this time." 

A chill ran down Clara's spine. The girl's voice was filled with longing, but there was something else—an edge of desperation. 

"Why does she come?" Clara asked. 

"To make sure I stay," Lila replied, her voice barely audible. 

Clara's heart ached. The sadness in Lila's words was overwhelming. "I'll help you," she blurted out. 

Lila's head snapped toward her, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then she smiled—a small, haunting smile. 

"You'll stay with me?" Lila asked, stepping closer. 

Clara hesitated. "I can't stay, but I can help you. Maybe I can—" 

The door creaked open, and a cold wind swept through the room. Lila vanished, leaving Clara alone. 

The Warning

Clara grabbed her flashlight and bolted out of the room, her heart pounding. She stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping over the uneven steps. 

The house felt alive now, the shadows shifting and whispering around her. She could feel eyes watching her, unseen but present. 

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard a new sound—a faint tapping, like footsteps on the wooden floor. 

"Clara..." Lila's voice echoed faintly. 

Clara froze. "What do you want?" she whispered. 

"Don't let her find me," Lila's voice replied, filled with fear. 

"Who?" 

Before Lila could answer, the front door creaked open, and Clara's flashlight flickered. A figure stood in the doorway—a woman, tall and imposing, her face hidden in shadow. 

Clara's blood turned to ice. 

The woman stepped inside, her movements deliberate. "You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice cold and sharp. 

Clara backed away, her flashlight trembling in her hands. "Who are you?" 

The woman's lips curved into a sinister smile. "I'm the one who keeps Lila safe." 

And with that, the door slammed shut, trapping Clara inside.