The Whispering House: A Bedtime Story

Hello, beloveds. This is a little ghost story that I wrote.

Eleanor Whitmore, a historian, inherits her great-aunt’s decaying Victorian mansion. When sorting through her Aunt's things, she begins to hear things. At first, she dismisses the eerie whispers and unsettling presence as tricks of her imagination. But her Aunt’s diaries and local records reveal the story of Lillian Hartwell, a woman falsely accused of witchcraft in 1897 and locked in the attic.

Music is generously provided by Nature's Eye.

Thank you for listening, my loves, and take care.

Transcript

Hello dear ones and welcome to today's reading of the whispering house a short bedtime story that i wrote so just as always making yourself comfortable in the space arriving here knowing that you have nowhere you need to go and there's nothing that you need to do right now and when you're ready dear ones we will begin Eleanor Whitmore had never believed in ghosts as a historian she spent her days buried in facts records and logical deductions so when she inherited her great aunt Beatrice's crumbling victorian mansion she dismissed the town's hushed warnings about the house's sinister past as nothing more than superstition the house loomed at the end of ashwood lane its roof clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers its windows dark and vacant seemed to watch Eleanor as she approached the front steps the air smelled of damp wood and forgotten time the townsfolk said the house whispered at night but Eleanor chopped it up to the wind slipping through rotted boards and loose shingles inside the scent of age was overwhelming dust mildew and something faintly metallic the grand chandelier in the foyer hung dull and lifeless its crystals coated in grime her footsteps echoed against the high ceilings as she explored the house its antique furnishings draped in sheets like restless phantoms she decided to stay for a few months at least until she could catalog Beatrice's possessions the old woman had been a recluse hoarding decades of letters trinkets and brittle books filled with notes scrawled in the margins on her second night Eleanor sat by the fireplace in the study flipping through one of Beatrice's journals the scrawled ink told of strange noises unseen figures and the constant feeling of being watched as if on cue a whisper brushed against Eleanor's ear her breath hitched she turned sharply scanning the dimly lit room the fireplace crackled shadows danced along the walls but nothing else stirred just my imagination she muttered shaking her head but the whispers persisted faint murmurs threaded through the halls at night slipping through the cracks of her bedroom door like threads of cold breath she would wake in the early hours to a presence in the room an invisible weight pressing against her chest yet when she sat up the room was empty determined to find a rational explanation Eleanor searched through Beatrice's records uncovering a tragic history in 1897 a woman named Lillian Hartwell had lived in the house she had been accused of witchcraft and madness lopped away in the attic until she wasted away the whispers the creaking floors the flickering candles Eleanor now wondered if they belonged to Lillian a woman silenced in life and crying out in death one night unable to ignore the whispers any longer Eleanor climbed the attic stairs the air grew colder with each step at the top she found a locked door its iron handle rusted with a deep breath she forced it open inside the attic was frozen in time a small iron bed sat in the corner its mattress sagging a wooden chair rested by the window overlooking the tangled garden below and on the walls scratched into the plaster were the words help me I am still here a gust of wind howled through the attic slamming the door shut Eleanor whirled around her pulse pounding then she saw her a woman stood by the window her form pale and flickering like candlelight hollow eyes met Eleanor's filled with centuries of sorrow Lillian Eleanor whispered the ghost's lips parted but the whispering filled Eleanor's head overlapping voices desperate please the attic walls seemed to close in the words on the plaster glowing faintly Eleanor clutched her head her mind spinning then as suddenly as it started the voices stopped Eleanor lifted her head the attic was empty the door creaked open as if inviting her to leave but she couldn't not yet in the days that followed she delved deeper into Lillian's story old newspaper clippings diary entries and faded letters painted a picture of a woman wrongly accused hidden away until she perished the town had buried her story but her spirit remained whispering her injustice into the walls of the house Eleanor knew what she had to do with the help of the town's records she arranged for Lillian's remains to be exhumed from the unmarked grave on the property a proper burial was held the town's folk gathering in solemn silence as the priest uttered the final blessing a wind swept through the graveyard not a chilling gust but a warm passing breeze that night the house was silent for the first time Eleanor remained in the mansion transforming it into an historical landmark ensuring that Lillian's story would never be forgotten the house no longer whispered in the dead of night but Eleanor often felt a comforting presence nearby as if someone was finally at peace and sometimes just sometimes she thought she heard a whisper not of sorrow but of gratitude as Eleanor continued her work she discovered more hidden passages secret compartments in old furniture and letters sealed away for over a century the deeper she went the more she realized that Lillian had not been the only one to suffer within the house's walls the mansion's history was woven with loss servants who vanished children who died young and a trail of misfortunes that stretched back generations each discovery pulled Eleanor further into the mansion's haunted past as if the house itself wanted its story told then she found it behind a section of rotting wallpaper in the basement she uncovered a hidden door it led to a narrow staircase that spiraled downward into the dark armed with a lantern Eleanor descended her breath shallow as she stepped into a forgotten chamber beneath the house the walls were lined with shelves filled with brittle ledges and rusted tools chains dangled from the ceiling their iron links thick with age in the center of the room stood a heavy wooden table its surface stained dark and on the far wall carved deep into the stone was a single word justice Eleanor's lantern flickered as a gust of cold air swept through the chamber this was no ordinary basement it was a dungeon the realization hit her like a blow the house had not merely imprisoned Lillian it had been a place of judgment of cruelty it had been used to silence those who knew too much those who had crossed the wrong people Lillian had not been the only victim Eleanor spent weeks unearthing the secrets buried in the chamber uncovering records of trials held in secret names of people who had disappeared the mansion had not been a home it had been a prison disguised as a home and it was not done speaking one night as Eleanor pored over documents in the study the lanterns flickered a shadow moved in the corner of the room she turned slowly her heart pounding a figure stood in the doorway a man dressed in old-fashioned clothes his expression grim this house was built on lies he whispered and you must tell the truth Eleanor's pulse raced who are you the first he said the first to be condemned here the whispers returned not of sorrow but of voices pleading for justice Eleanor knew what she had to do the book that she had planned to write was no longer just Lillian's story it was the story of everyone who had suffered within these walls she would give them their voices back and when she finished the final chapter the house exhaled a long weary sigh and for the first time in centuries it was truly silent

Reviews

Nice story told in a soothing manner. I went right back to sleep.