Whispers in the Dark

The storm raged outside, its fury muted to a dull roar by the mansion's thick walls. Clara and Sarid had dragged a moth-eaten sofa into the parlor, its stuffing spilling out like grotesque innards, and huddled beneath their jackets. The flashlight sat between them, its beam dimming steadily.

"We'll take turns keeping watch," Sarid said, but his eyelids drooped before Clara could argue.

Sleep came fitfully. Clara jolted awake hours later, her skin slick with cold sweat. The storm had quieted, replaced by an oppressive silence. The flashlight was dead. Moonlight seeped through grime-caked windows, casting the room in a sickly silver pallor.

Scritch-scritch-scritch.

The sound came from the hallway—a rhythmic scraping, like nails dragging over wood. Clara sat up, her breath shallow. Sarid snored softly beside her, oblivious.

"Sarid," she hissed, shaking him.

He stirred, groggy. "What…?"

"Listen."

The scratching stopped. For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

Giggling.

High-pitched, crystalline, and utterly out of place. A child's laughter.

Sarid bolted upright. "What the hell is that?"

Clara grabbed the flashlight, smacking it until the beam flickered to life. The laughter echoed again, closer now, bouncing off the walls as if the house itself were taunting them.

"Stay here," Sarid said, but Clara was already on her feet.

The beam cut through the darkness as they crept into the hall. The air grew colder with every step, their breath fogging. The laughter led them to a staircase, its steps sagging with rot. At the top, a shadow flitted across the landing—a small, hunched figure.

"Did you see that?" Clara whispered.

"See what?" Sarid's voice was tight. "There's nothing there."

The cold intensified, biting into Clara's bones. She aimed the flashlight upward. The figure was gone.

Back in the parlor, Sarid collapsed onto the sofa. "It was the wind. Or an animal. This place is falling apart—there's probably raccoons in the walls."

Clara didn't answer. Her gaze drifted to the floorboards beneath the sofa. A patch of dust had been disturbed, revealing grooves in the wood—tiny, frantic scratches.

She knelt, running her fingers over the marks. "Sarid, help me move this."

Grumbling, he obliged. The sofa legs screeched against the floor. Beneath it, half-hidden in shadow, lay a rusted music box. Its surface was etched with floral patterns, now corroded, and a single, small handprint gleamed in the dust beside it. Fresh.

Sarid sucked in a breath. "That… that wasn't there before."

Clara reached for the music box. The moment her fingers brushed it, the room plunged into darkness. The flashlight died.

And the music began.

A tinny, off-key lullaby spilled from the box, the gears grinding like broken teeth. Clara fumbled to shut it, but the lid snapped closed on its own.

"We're leaving," Sarid said, grabbing her arm. "Now."

But the front door still wouldn't budge. The storm had passed, yet the house held them fast.

Back in the parlor, they sat in silence. Sarid refused to look at the music box, now tucked under a moldy cushion. Clara stared at her hands, still trembling.

"We'll sleep in shifts," Sarid said finally. "I'll take first watch."

Clara didn't argue. She curled into herself, the lullaby echoing in her skull. Just as sleep began to pull her under, she felt it—a presence, crouched beside her. Breath stale and cold, brushing her ear.

"Stay," it whispered.

When she opened her eyes, the room was empty. But Sarid's watchful gaze, lit by the moon, lingered a beat too long on the hallway.