The moment Claire and David stepped into the house, they knew something was off. It wasn’t the dust-choked air or the peeling wallpaper—it was the feeling of being watched, the sensation of unseen eyes tracking their every move.
The Victorian home had been a steal, nestled at the end of a dead-end street, its once-grand façade whispering of past opulence. The previous owners had vanished, the realtor had said, leaving behind only mystery. But Claire and David were eager to start fresh. New town, new home, new life.
Then they noticed the vents.
Small, circular grates embedded into the walls of every room, no bigger than a bottle cap. Some were tucked high into corners, others low near the baseboards. At first, they dismissed them as remnants of an archaic ventilation system—until the whispers began.
The first night, Claire thought she was dreaming. A faint murmur slithered through the dark, a hushed conversation just beyond her reach. When she turned to David, he was already sitting up, his face pale.
“Did you hear that?”
They crept through the house, following the murmurs. The voices drifted through the vents, winding through the walls like a restless wind. They weren’t just whispers; they were knowing, taunting.
Claire… David…
The couple froze. The voices knew their names.
The next morning, they scoured the house, looking for the source. They found no speakers, no intercom system, nothing that explained how sound could travel so clearly. David pressed his ear to a vent in the hallway. Silence.
But that night, the voices returned. They spoke of things no one else could know—Claire’s childhood nightmares, the way David had once thought about leaving her in their darkest days. The voices dug into their past, their fears, their doubts, until they were lying in bed, paralyzed in terror.
Then, the voices changed.
The whispers became rhythmic, overlapping, harmonizing into something grotesque—a chorus of breathy giggles and moans, pressing against the walls like unseen hands.
You can’t leave. We hear you. We see you. We know you.
The house was listening.
David had enough. He grabbed Claire’s hand and pulled her toward the door. But when they turned the knob, the door wouldn’t budge. Not locked. Not jammed. Just… stuck. As if something on the other side was holding it shut.
A sound rumbled through the house—a deep, gurgling inhale. The vents pulsed, the air thick with something foul and wet. The walls trembled as if the house itself was stretching, awakening.
Then came the screaming.
Not from the vents. From inside them.
A cacophony of shrieks and sobs, pleading voices begging, **Help us! Get out! RUN!**
Claire clawed at the door, sobbing. David turned to the windows, but they were no longer windows—just smooth, blank walls where glass had been. The house was shifting, sealing them in. It wasn’t just a house. It was alive.
The vents gaped open, no longer small grates but dark, yawning mouths. Something slithered behind them, dragging itself through the walls, its ragged breaths echoing all around them.
Claire and David turned in unison as a final whisper slithered through the air, soft, sweet, and full of malice:
**We hear your fear… and we’re hungry.**
The walls inhaled once more.
And then, silence.
The house waited.
Listening.
For the next visitors to arrive.
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