The old house on the edge of town had always been a place of whispered stories. No one knew exactly when it was built, but its presence seemed as ancient as the trees that surrounded it. The windows were broken, the roof sagged, and the front door creaked with every gust of wind, as if trying to tell a secret no one wanted to hear. Most people avoided it, but a few curious souls would sometimes wander too close, drawn by something they couldn’t explain. Lila was one of them. She had moved to the town a year ago, seeking a quiet life away from the city’s noise. But the silence here was thick, almost oppressive, and it made her restless. One evening, as she walked along the riverbank, she noticed the old house again, standing in the distance like a forgotten dream. Something about it called to her. She had never seen anyone else there, but she felt as though someone—or something—was watching her. She decided to go inside. The air was colder than it should have been, even for autumn. The floorboards groaned under her feet as she stepped through the threshold, the scent of mildew and decay filling her nostrils. Dust swirled in the dim light that filtered through the cracked windows. She found a small room at the back, lined with bookshelves that held nothing but empty spaces. In the center stood an old desk, covered in yellowed paper and ink stains. It looked untouched, yet somehow lived. As she reached out to touch the desk, the temperature dropped suddenly. A chill ran down her spine, and she heard a faint whisper, not from the wind or the house, but from somewhere inside her own mind. “You shouldn’t be here,” it said, soft and distant, like a memory she’d never had. Lila stumbled back, heart pounding. She turned to leave, but the door was gone, replaced by a solid wall of wood. Panic surged, but she forced herself to stay calm. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sound of her own heartbeat. When she opened them, the door was back. She ran out, not looking back, her legs shaking. That night, she couldn’t sleep. She kept hearing the same whisper, over and over, in her dreams. It wasn’t a voice she recognized, but it felt familiar, like a lullaby from another life. She tried to dismiss it as stress, but the feeling lingered. Days passed, and the whispers grew louder. They came in the morning, in the evening, in the middle of the night. They spoke of things she didn’t understand, of places she had never been, of people she had never met. She started to notice strange patterns in the town: the way shadows stretched unnaturally, the way certain doors opened when no one was near, the way some people seemed to vanish without explanation. One day, she found a journal in the library, tucked behind a stack of old books. Its pages were filled with entries written in a shaky hand, describing the same house, the same whispers, the same feeling of being watched. The last entry was dated years before she arrived, and it ended with a single line: “They are waiting.” Lila began to research the history of the house, digging through records and old newspapers. What she found was unsettling. The house had belonged to a man named Elias Vane, a reclusive writer who disappeared after a fire destroyed his home. No body was ever found. Some claimed he had fled, others that he had been taken by something in the house itself. The fire had left the structure standing, as if something had protected it. She returned to the house, determined to find answers. This time, she brought a flashlight and a notebook. Inside, the air was still, heavy with the weight of time. She explored each room, searching for clues. In the same back room, she found a hidden compartment behind the bookshelf. Inside was a collection of letters, all addressed to someone named “Mara.” The dates spanned decades, as if someone had been writing to her long after she was gone. One letter stood out, written in a different hand, more urgent. “I know you’re listening. I know what you did. You can’t hide forever. They will come for you, just as they came for me.” Lila’s hands trembled. She looked around, expecting to see someone, but the house was silent. Then, she heard the whisper again, closer this time. “You’ve come back,” it said. “But you are not ready.” She turned, but there was no one there. Just the cold, the silence, and the weight of something unseen pressing against her chest. She ran out, not daring to look back. As she reached the edge of the woods, she glanced over her shoulder one last time. The house stood as it always had, but now, in the moonlight, she could see something moving behind the windows—shapes, not quite human, watching her. She never went back. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between sleep and waking, she hears the whisper again, and wonders if she was ever truly alone.