Chapter 4: Whisper from the Walls

Alika's POV

I don’t remember exactly when everything started to change.

Maybe it was the first night, when the woman in the mirror looked at me as if I were her. Or perhaps it began with that strange dream—the upside-down room, the soulless bride, and a voice that told me I had to kill Ethan before the third night.

But this morning... something feels truly different.

The sky outside is overcast, yet the light that filters in is strange. Dim, as if held back by an invisible fog. I crack open the window, only to be met with an unnaturally cold breeze, despite it not being winter. A sharp scent of jasmine hangs in the air—too sweet, almost suffocating. And faintly... I can smell blood.

Ethan left at dawn. I have no idea where he went. When I asked Mrs. Whitmore, the elderly housekeeper, she only replied in a hushed tone, “Master Ethan has family business to attend to.”

Whatever that means, I know I won’t get a clearer answer.

Alone in the large bedroom, I start to feel like a prisoner. Everything is too quiet. Too... unreal.

I sit near the wall. An old painting hangs above the bed—a little girl sitting on a swing in a dark garden, with the looming shadow of a gnarled tree behind her. But what unsettles me most… are her eyes. Wherever I move in the room, it feels like her gaze follows me.

I try to ignore it. I pick up an old book from the shelf. I turn on the antique radio. But as the clock ticks closer to noon, I begin to hear it.

Faintly.

A whisper.

From inside the wall.

At first, I think it’s mice. But... no. This is a voice. Speaking.

“Run…”

“Hide…”

“He’s coming back tonight…”

I freeze.

I press my ear against the wall. And then I hear it more clearly. As if someone—or something—is speaking from the other side of the wall.

“You’re not the first…”

“He’s waiting for you in the cellar…”

“Don’t trust his blood…”

I recoil in panic. My heart pounds erratically. “Who are you?! What do you mean?!”

No answer.

Only silence.

And then... a laugh. Soft. Female. It slices through the air like a slow knife.

I bolt from the room. The hallway is dim and long, lined with old portraits of strangers whose eyes seem to follow my every step. My footsteps echo, and for a moment, I feel as though something invisible is chasing me.

I rush down to the main hall. Mrs. Whitmore is watering the plants in a large ceramic pot. But... the water is red.

Blood.

I stop in horror. But when I blink again, the water turns clear once more. Maybe I imagined it. Or... maybe this house is starting to play tricks on me.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” I say quietly. “Does this house... keep secrets?”

She turns slowly. Her expression is blank for a moment before she lowers her gaze.

“Miss Alika,” she says in a near-whisper, “The more you know, the closer danger gets.”

“I heard whispers. From inside the bedroom wall,” I say, unable to hide the tremble in my voice.

She bites her lip, then steps closer. She leans in and whispers,

“Never sleep with your door locked from the inside. And never look into the mirror at exactly 3:00 a.m.”

I frown. “Why?”

She swallows hard. “Because at that hour… what’s behind the mirror can see you back.”

—

That evening, I decide to look for the cellar the whispers mentioned.

This house is vast, a maze of corridors and half-forgotten doors. But after exploring the hallway behind the kitchen, I find an old iron door half-hidden behind a dusty rack of tools.

The keyhole is rusted, but strangely… it’s unlocked.

The stone steps lead downward into darkness. The air grows damp and thick.

I turn on my phone flashlight and begin to descend, slowly.

The cellar walls are carved with old markings—symbols I don’t understand. But one of them catches my eye: a circle crossed with a single line, surrounded by three small dots. It’s exactly the same as the birthmark on the back of my neck—one I’ve had since childhood and never understood.

The deeper I go, the colder the air becomes.

And at the far end of the room... I find it.

An old wedding chair. Centered in the room. Surrounded by dozens of melted candles that have turned into wax stalactites.

On the chair, a faded wedding veil hangs loosely, its color now a sickly grey-green.

But that’s not what makes me stop breathing.

On the wall behind the chair hang dozens of photographs. All women. All in wedding gowns.

And all their faces... destroyed.

Torn. Scratched. Mutilated.

I step back, horrified.

And in the middle of the collage, there’s an empty space.

Empty, except for one thing: my name.

Alika Morgan, 2025.

My hands begin to tremble.

And then, from the corner of the room, the voice returns.

Only this time… it's no longer a whisper.

It's a scream.

“GET OUT! GET OUT BEFORE THE THIRD NIGHT!!”

I run. I don’t stop. My breath is ragged. I burst out of the cellar—and nearly slam into Ethan at the top of the stairs.

His face is unreadable. His eyes, sharp.

“You weren’t supposed to go down there,” he says calmly.

“Down where? The cellar? What is going on in this house, Ethan?!” I shout, no longer able to contain my fear.

He steps closer. Studying me.

“You heard them, didn’t you?” he murmurs.

“Heard who?!”

He closes his eyes for a moment. Then says quietly,

“You’re more sensitive than we thought. But that also means… you can’t leave.”

I stare at him, my throat tight. “What do you mean I can’t leave?”

“After the third night, you’ll be one of them. Your voice... will be the next whisper in the walls.”

My mouth falls open. But no words come out.

And then Ethan says something that makes my blood run cold.

“The first woman who ever heard the whispers… was your mother.”