The House That Called Her Name

Eleanor had always wanted a home of her own. Not a modern apartment in a crowded city, but something with history—something real. So when she stumbled upon the listing for a quaint little cottage deep in the forest, she felt like fate had finally answered her.

The owner had been vague about its past.

“It’s been empty for a while,” he told her. “Used to belong to a woman who… well, let’s just say she preferred to be alone.”

The price was too good to pass up, so Eleanor ignored the odd phrasing and signed the papers.

From the moment she stepped inside, she felt it—like the house had been expecting her.

The floors creaked beneath her feet, the warm glow of the lantern by the door flickered, and the scent of aged wood filled the air. It was perfect.

Or so she thought.

Night One: The Footsteps

That first night, Eleanor slept soundly. But just before dawn, something stirred her awake.

Footsteps.

Light. Careful. Pacing above her head.

She sat up, heart pounding. The cottage had an attic, but she hadn’t even gone up there yet. Had someone been living here before her?

She grabbed the heaviest thing she could find—a fireplace poker—and climbed the narrow stairs.

The attic was empty. Just dust-covered furniture and old trunks.

Yet the air felt thick, heavy, as if she wasn’t alone.

Brushing off the unease, she went back to bed. But she didn’t sleep.

Night Two: The Whispers

Eleanor spent the next day exploring the house. She found old books on the shelves, dried herbs hanging in the kitchen, and a rusted key in the drawer of an antique writing desk.

It didn’t seem to fit any lock in the house.

That night, the whispering started.

Soft. Gentle. Just outside her bedroom door.

She held her breath, straining to hear. It was a woman’s voice, though she couldn’t make out the words.

Then, as if the house was breathing, a slow creak echoed from the hallway.

The doorknob turned.

Eleanor’s pulse thundered in her ears. She grabbed the key, clutching it like a lifeline, and squeezed her eyes shut.

The whispering stopped.

When she opened her eyes, the door was still locked.

She barely slept.

Night Three: The Journal

By the third night, Eleanor was ready to leave.

But then she found the journal.

It was hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace, its pages yellowed with age. The writing was rushed, frantic, as if the owner had written in desperation.

One entry made her blood run cold:

“It calls my name at night. If I answer, I know I will never leave.”

Her hands trembled as she turned the page.

The last entry was unfinished, just one final sentence trailing off:

“I think tonight, I made a mistake… I—”

A soft whisper brushed against her ear.

“Eleanor.”

She screamed.

The lamp beside her flickered violently. The walls groaned as if something inside them was shifting. The doorknob twisted, rattling furiously.

She ran.

Grabbing only her car keys, she bolted out of the cottage, never daring to look back.

The next day, she returned with a locksmith to retrieve her things. But when they entered the house…

The journal was gone.

And the attic door?

Wide open.

She never set foot inside again.

But some nights, even miles away, she swears she still hears it.

Whispering her name.