It happened again last night. I woke up just after midnight, the house so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. Then, from the direction of the hidden room, I heard it—a soft whisper, like someone speaking just out of earshot.

I lay there, frozen, straining to make out the words. The whispers rose and fell, sometimes urgent, sometimes almost gentle. I couldn't tell if it was one voice or many, but I felt a strange pull, as if I was being invited to listen closer.

After a while, curiosity got the better of me. I crept down the hallway, every step echoing in the darkness. The door to the hidden room was closed, but the whispers seemed to seep through the cracks. I pressed my ear against the wood, but the words slipped away, leaving only a cold shiver down my spine.

Back in my room, I tried to convince myself it was just the wind, or maybe the old pipes settling. But deep down, I know it was something else. The house is trying to tell me its secrets, and I'm not sure I'm ready to hear them.

Tonight, I'm keeping my journal close. If the whispers return, maybe I'll be brave enough to answer.