After the Whispers

March 2, 2025

I signed the lease today. Six months.

Crescent Hill, just outside of town. The house is old — real wood floors, big windows, cracked walls. Too cheap for what it is, but the landlord, Mr. Yu, was eager to get someone in. Said the place has been empty a while.

I need the space. And the quiet.

March 3, 2025

First night. Wind shakes the windows.

House creaks like it’s breathing. I keep telling myself- old houses sound alive. That’s all.

Unpacked a few boxes. Bedroom’s upstairs, office downstairs. I’ll write here. No excuses now.

March 4, 2025

The kitchen light flickered this morning.

Not a big deal, just a bulb. Later, I heard footsteps upstairs. Heavy, deliberate. I was alone. Went up with a flashlight. Nothing.

I don’t scare easy, but I locked the bedroom door tonight.

March 6, 2025

Didn’t write yesterday. Couldn’t. The footsteps came again, midday this time. I was at my desk. They started in the hall, moved to the bedroom. This time I knew I was alone.

I went upstairs again — empty. Left every light on after that.

I called Yu. He just said, “House is old. You’ll get used to it.”

March 7, 2025

I’m hearing whispers now. Low, at the edge of hearing. Can’t make out words. Just beneath the hum of appliances, like a conversation through a wall that isn’t there.

Started researching the house. Local library had a clipping — back in 1958, a woman named Anastasia Heart lived here.

Went missing. Never found.

March 8, 2025

Didn’t sleep. The whispers came in waves last night. Louder. Almost rhythmic.

I recorded them with my phone. Playback sounds like static, but… there’s a pattern.

Like someone breathing, then a faint “come.”

I am not imagining this.

March 9, 2025

Woke to the bedroom door open. I locked it. I know I locked it.

The journal I left on the nightstand was on the floor, opened to a blank page. No sign of a break-in.

I called Yu again. Told him everything. He got quiet and said, “You can break the lease if you want.” That’s all. No argument. No surprise.

March 10, 2025

Packed most of my things. I can’t stay here.

But part of me — against all reason — wants to understand.

I stayed tonight, one last time. Set up my phone in the bedroom. Left it recording. I need proof, or closure, or both.

March 11, 2025

Watched the footage this morning. Around 3:12 a.m., the bedroom door opened on its own.

Then, faint — at the edge of the frame — a figure. Pale, thin, long hair. Barely visible. It stood by the bed for nearly a minute. Then the phone battery died.

I don’t remember waking up. I don’t remember seeing it. But on my nightstand this morning- a single word scrawled in my journal, shaky handwriting — "Stay."

March 12, 2025

I should leave. Rationally, I know that.

But I stayed again. I set up two cameras this time. Different angles.

3:10 a.m.- same figure. Closer now. Face obscured, movements jerky, unnatural.

In both recordings, when it reaches the bed, there’s static. Whole frames lost. Then nothing.

Journal now has two more words beneath yesterday’s — "Please. Help."

March 13, 2025

I researched Anastasia Heart again.

Found an old police file, digitized. She had reported strange occurrences in the house- noises, objects moving, the feeling of being watched.

Final entry in her own journal — filed as evidence- "I think the house wants something. I think I’m supposed to stay."

She vanished two nights later.

March 14, 2025

I’m losing track of time. I wake with scratches on my arms I can’t explain.

The figure is clearer now on the footage.

Face still a blur, but the gestures are pleading. Outstretched hands.

I think it’s her. Anastasia.

She’s trying to tell me something.

March 15, 2025

I found a loose floorboard under the bed.

Pulled it up. Inside- a small tin box, rusted shut.

Forced it open. Inside were old photographs, a locket, and a letter. The letter was addressed to Mother.

It reads- “If anything happens to me, know that it was the house. Something is trapped here. I can’t leave until it’s free.”

I think I understand now.

March 16, 2025

I stayed again.

At 3:00 a.m., I spoke out loud. Told her I found the letter. Asked what she wanted.

For the first time, the whispers formed words. "The box. The earth."

I think she wants it buried. To finish what she couldn’t.

March 17, 2025

I took the box out today. Walked to the old willow behind the house. Dug beneath the roots.

As I placed the box in the earth, the wind rose — howling, almost a voice. Then dead calm.

That night, no footsteps. No whispers. For the first time, silence.

March 18, 2025

I filmed all night. Nothing.

The bedroom door stayed shut. No figure appeared. No static on the tape.

Anastasia, if that was you — I hope you’re free.

March 20, 2025

The house feels lighter.

I’m moving out. Lease or no lease. But I’ll leave a note for whoever comes next.

Some things linger. Some houses remember.

March 21, 2025

I spoke to Mr. Yu today. Told him what I did. He looked relieved, even grateful. Said simply, “Maybe it’s over, then.”

I hope so. For both of us.

March 22, 2025

I should’ve left today. I packed everything. Car is ready.

But when I stood in the doorway to lock up, I heard it. One soft whisper- "Wait."

It was her voice. Clear. Human.

I froze. The house was still. The air tasted charged.

I stayed one more night.

March 23, 2025

Nothing happened overnight. No voice. No figure. No cold spots.

I kept the cameras running — hours of empty footage. I’m trying to convince myself I imagined it.

But there’s a scratch on the inside of the front door. New. Fresh wood exposed.

One word, roughly gouged- "Wait."

March 24, 2025

I called Yu again. Told him everything.

He sighed. Then he told me something he hadn’t before-

"You’re not the first to say this. Others left in the middle of the night. One man left the country. You’re the first to stay this long. Maybe it wants something else from you."

Why didn’t he tell me earlier? Maybe he knew it wouldn’t matter.

March 25, 2025

Dreams now. Vivid.

I’m in the house, but it’s different — new- Fresh paint, clean floors. Sunlight everywhere.

Anastasia is there. Sitting at the kitchen table. Pale. Calm. She mouths words I can’t hear. When I reach for her, I wake up.

It’s the same dream, twice now.

March 26, 2025

I stayed up to avoid the dream. The house stayed silent.

Around 4 a.m., I dozed off on the couch. Woke cold, heart pounding.

The journal was open on my lap. New writing I didn’t put there- "Not free. One more."

March 27, 2025

Another trip to the library.

I dug deeper — local folklore, old papers. Found an account from 1911- man named Tyler Freeman built the house. Original owner. Known for “strange beliefs about binding souls.” His wife and child died here. No graves. Rumors say their remains were hidden beneath the house.

If Anastasia wasn’t the only one trapped — maybe this is what’s left unfinished.

March 28, 2025

I crawled beneath the house today. Filthy, claustrophobic.

Toward the back, beneath the kitchen, I found a stone slab. Loose. Heavy. Underneath — small bones. A child. And next to them, a woman’s ring.

I left them undisturbed and called the police.

March 29, 2025

Police came. Took the remains. Old, brittle. They believe it matches a missing person case from 1912 — Barbara Freeman and child.

They asked how I found them. I told them the truth — half of it. The part they’d believe.

They thanked me. Case closed, they said. But not for me.

March 30, 2025

The house feels empty now. Not light. Not dark. Just… empty.

No more footsteps. No whispers. No dreams.

I think it’s over. I hope it is.

April 1, 2025

I moved out today. Took one last walk through the house.

The air was still. The floors quiet.

On the inside of the front door, the scratch was gone. Smoothed over, as if it had never been there.

In the kitchen, on the table, my journal was waiting. Open. One final message, faint-

"Thank you."

April 2, 2025

I’m writing this last entry from a new apartment.

I sleep through the night now. No sounds, no dreams.

Sometimes I think about Crescent Hill. About Anastasia, about the Freeman's.

Some debts run deep. Some places remember.

But some memories — finally — can rest.