The Johnson family moved into an old house at the end of Maple Street. It was cheap and charming, but it had a strange feeling. The walls seemed to breathe, whispering secrets in the night.
At first, Emma, the youngest daughter, thought it was just her imagination. But soon, she began to hear soft voices calling her name. “Emma, come play with us,” they would say. She felt drawn to the walls, pressing her ear against them to listen.
One night, Emma followed the whispers to the basement. The air was cold and damp. As she stepped inside, the voices grew louder, echoing around her. “Help us,” they pleaded. She saw shadows flickering on the walls, shapes of children who looked sad and lost.
Frightened, Emma ran back upstairs and told her parents, but they laughed it off. “It’s just an old house, sweetie,” her mother said.
Determined to help, Emma returned to the basement the next night. The whispers became desperate. “Free us!” They seemed to cry.
With a deep breath, she touched the wall, and suddenly, the shadows rushed towards her, pulling her into darkness. The next morning, the walls were silent, and Emma was gone. The house stood empty, waiting for the next family to hear its whispers.
