I didn’t believe in haunted houses until the walls started whispering back.

It began with a draft behind the study paneling—except there was no crack, no window, nothing. Just cold air and a syllable: "...stay..." I froze, pen hovering over my notebook. I told myself it was wind, fatigue, anything. But then it came again, clearer, layered—voices overlapping in a language that shouldn’t exist. My hands shook as I pressed my ear to the wallpaper. That’s when the pulse started. A slow, rhythmic throb beneath the plaster, like a heartbeat buried in the bones of the house.

I pulled back and the lights flickered. For a second, the pattern on the wall shifted—letters formed in the grain, then dissolved. And then, in perfect English, three words: *"We remember you."

I don’t remember this place. Not really. But something in me does.

Now the door behind me creaks open on its own. Down the hall, a child’s laughter echoes—wrong, because no child has lived here in eighty years. My recorder blinks red: signal lost. My phone’s dead. The stairs down are gone—just a blank wall where they used to be.

And the whisper comes again, softer now, almost kind: "Don’t run. We have so much to tell you."

I have seconds to decide—answer the voice, flee into the shifting corridor, or scream until something answers.