Whispers Behind the Wall

When Miriam Fletcher inherited her grandmother’s crumbling Victorian house in the quiet village of Ashford Hollow, she almost refused it. She had never felt close to her grandmother—an austere, reclusive woman with cold eyes and colder words. But after her recent divorce and the slow collapse of her job as an art teacher, the house was all she had left.

The house sat on the edge of a thinning forest, paint peeling, shutters hanging loose, and ivy creeping along the walls like it was trying to pull the house back into the earth. The townsfolk avoided it, and Miriam quickly learned not to mention her new address. Their polite smiles faded, their voices lowered, and they all said the same thing:

“That place isn’t right.”

The first few days were uneventful, except for the odd creaks and groans that came with any house older than memory. But on the fourth night, as she unpacked in what used to be her grandmother’s bedroom, Miriam noticed something strange.

There was a soft whispering behind the wall.

She paused, thinking it was the wind, or perhaps mice. But it wasn’t. The sound wasn’t random—it was repeating, like a voice mumbling through thick cloth. She pressed her ear to the wall.

Nothing.

She shook her head and laughed nervously, brushing it off. She hadn’t slept properly in days. That night, she took a sleeping pill and collapsed into bed.

But the next night, it happened again—louder this time.

"Come back..."

The whisper was faint, yet clear. Miriam bolted upright in bed, her skin crawling. She turned on every light, searching for a rational explanation. The walls were solid wood and plaster—no vents, no pipes, no speakers.

She tried telling herself it was a dream.

But the whispers continued—always at night, always behind the wall in her bedroom.

On the seventh night, Miriam had had enough. She stood in front of the wall, trembling but determined.

"Who’s there?" she whispered.

The voice answered almost instantly.

"You know me..."

She backed away, heart hammering. The voice was soft and genderless, like it belonged to no one, or everyone. It wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t kind either. It simply was.

She slept on the couch that night, lights on, doors locked.

In the morning, she explored the house more thoroughly, hunting for the source. In the basement, she found a small wooden door hidden behind old paint cans. It led to a narrow crawl space running between the walls.

She crawled inside with a flashlight. The space was dusty and cramped, with cobwebs stretching like spider silk. But what made her stop breathing was what she saw scratched into the inner wall:

“I didn’t mean to. She made me do it.”

The writing was frantic, carved into the wood with something sharp. There were more markings, names, tally marks, and deep scratches like someone had tried to claw their way out.

Suddenly the air grew cold.

Something moved behind her.

She turned quickly—but there was nothing there. Just the stillness, the smell of damp wood, and her own ragged breath.

She backed out quickly and slammed the crawl space door shut.

That night, the whispering changed.

"You saw it. You know now."

Miriam screamed and shoved a dresser against the wall. She grabbed her phone and called the only person she still trusted—her friend Olivia, a local historian and paranormal researcher.

Olivia arrived the next day, skeptical but supportive. She examined the wall and the crawl space, then studied the family records in the attic. That’s when she found the journal.

It belonged to Miriam’s great-aunt Lillian—a girl no one ever mentioned. The pages were yellowed, ink faded, but the entries told a haunting story.

“Grandmother is angry again. She says Lillian talks too much. She said if I speak of the voices again, I’ll end up behind the wall like the others…”

“They whisper at night. They beg to be let out.”

“Today, she locked Lillian in the crawl space. I think... I think she never came back out.”

Miriam couldn’t breathe. Her grandmother—her stern, elegant grandmother—was a murderer.

Olivia closed the journal slowly. “I think... your grandmother was hiding something. Or someone.”

That night, they both stayed in the bedroom, equipment set up, voice recorders on. At exactly 2:13 a.m., the whispering began.

But this time, they caught it on tape

"Please... I’m still here... It hurts..."

The voice was clearer than ever before. And then—

A loud knock came from inside the wall.

Miriam screamed, Olivia dropped the recorder, and the dresser slid forward on its own, as if pushed from inside.

They ran.

The next day, with the help of a contractor Olivia trusted, they opened the wall.

Behind layers of plaster and wood, they found bones. Small, fragile, human bones. A rusted locket. Scraps of faded fabric. And a broken doll.

It was Lillian.

The police took the remains for investigation, but there was no one left to charge. Miriam’s grandmother had died three years ago.

The house was silent that night. No whispers. No knocks.

Just silence.

But Miriam knew the truth now. She wrote Lillian’s story. She restored her name, had a grave built in the village cemetery, and visited it every Sunday.

And the house?

It changed.

The air felt warmer. The skies over Ashford Hollow grew softer. And sometimes, just as the sun set, Miriam swore she could hear laughter — a little girl's giggle carried by the wind.

No more whispers.

Only peace.