The House Of Whispers Novels & Stories

He didn't even have the mindspace to work. I had chosen to leave and had taken great care to wipe all traces of me in the system. As a result, William couldn't find out where I had gone. … Days passed William by like they always did. It was dull, monotonous, and filled with work. He came home groggy and dazed, but then a familiar scent hit him. His heart skipped a beat, and he immediately charged into the dining room. He was so desperate that he didn't even change into his indoor shoes.

The closet door creaked again, an inch wider. I sucked in a sharp breath and the light flickered out. Darkness swallowed the room.A ragged breath that wasn’t mine sounded from the closet. And that was when I heard it . A whisper. Low. Almost inaudible. "You should have stayed asleep."

It’s the only copy left of the grimoire, The Book of Whispers, the recipes within capable of undoing the fabric of time. My necklace glows and warms against my skin, it’s light faint as it bleeds through the fabric of my sweatshirt. “Show me where it is,” I command my powers. I close my eyes as I move into the study, stretching out my hand. Faint whispers drift toward me in a language long lost to time. Ageless, genderless voices that mingle, hissing and chanting as my fingers brush over the spines of books, over Misty’s stationary computer, her notebooks.

The air was thick with anticipation as we cautiously approached the entrance, alert for any signs of danger. As we entered the dimly lit warehouse, we were greeted by an eerie silence. The space was vast, filled with crates and shadows that seemed to dance in the flickering light. The atmosphere was suffused with an aura of mystery, each step we took echoing in the emptiness. Suddenly, a low voice broke through the silence, sending shivers down my spine. "Welcome, Mia," it whispered, reverberating through the cavernous space. A figure emerged from the shadows, clad in a dark cloak that concealed their identity. It was a representative of The Silent Hand.

"Austin?" A woman's voice emerges from inside his apartment, and my heart sinks. "Austin, who's that?" He momentarily turns his gaze away, and I take advantage of the opportunity to slip past his barricade. The unfamiliar woman stands there, clad only in a matching set of black underwear, and regards me with disinterest. Her indifference fuels my anger. "What on earth is going on?!" "Babe...I can explain..." "Really?!" I turn to the woman, who appears to be at least five years older than me.

She took a deep breath before opening it slowly. ••• The smokes coming from the devil's cigar formed a f**king thick cloud in the room, so much that it kept her face away from the dim light in the room. Even without her face in the light, her smell would definitely fill up any nose that enters. She smells like carnage, total havoc and destruction. The smokes began dying down by the minutes, and the first thing that came to view is a glass of bourbon on a metal stool in front of two female legs placed on each other.

he said with a growl. “Let’s keep walking. We need to get back to the pack house soon.” So much for me asking about the war and learning more about Rowan. As we continued our walk in silence, I noted the abandoned houses that had overgrown vegetation growing inside and outside of them. Some caved in, others burned down to the foundation. I began to hear whispers guiding me to one particular house. As I got closer to the burned down home, the whispers grew louder. I touched the threshold to what was once the front door.

The whispers in the night grew louder, their source eluding comprehension. The twist in this chapter unfolded when Victoria stumbled upon an old journal tucked away in the library. Its pages, yellowed with time, bore the elegant script of a previous resident of Sterling Manor. The entries spoke of love, loss, and a twist that had altered the course of their story. Intrigued, Victoria delved deeper into the journal, uncovering tales of a hidden room, secret passages, and a mystery that had become intertwined with the very essence of Sterling Manor. The echoes of the past seemed to converge, weaving a narrative that begged to be unraveled.

Linda didn’t have a mask, so she stepped into the shadow and tried her best to become invisible. The room smelled like damp stone and old money—musty and sour, with a hint of arrogance. It was the kind of place you’d expect to find an ancient scroll or maybe a skeleton with a crown, but no such luck. Instead, there were twelve masked lunatics, looking more like a bad art exhibit than the architects of an international conspiracy.

Something that shouldn't be disturbed in the house of silence, not far from the killing square. Hope sprang in this house, and her tidy walls did rattle with joy. It was the most the house could do, for if she was capable of more, her silver and goldwares, plates, and cups would have left their racks and cupboards to make high-pitched sounds. Beds, sofas, stools, chairs, and tables would have joined in, causing a ruckus to attract attention. But this was a house that was not to be noticed. A house cursed to create nothing but whispers. A house that wasn't a house.