Whispers, they often called it—unintelligible whispers between people. But unlike the visitors, I didn’t hear an utterance of a word coming from the dead space. In fact, I couldn’t hear at all.
I was raised in an old Victorian house. Every year, my father would order tins of white paint to keep the pillars, balustrades, and walls in pristine appearance. He would often check the floorboards—quick to fix even the softest creak. And every single time I asked him why he was in a rush to mend the walls and polish the doorknobs, he would declare his love for the place we called home.
My father claimed that our home held more history than the local museum. He would rattle about the heritage to anyone who would listen. But strangely enough, my father never once shared a story about its past—who built it, what happened to the early settlers, and why was it worthy of his love? Those common questions were left unanswered—the moment someone brought them up, my father would default to babbling about the weather. Strange, yes. But though his response always made me curious, I chose to remain ignorant.
For the most part, nothing bizarre occurred within the ever-white walls. The house wasn’t haunted—or at least, it never felt that way. Nothing moved or went missing, and there weren’t any cold spots as how TV ghost hunters would determine the presence of otherworldly beings. However, when I was finally old enough to host sleepovers, I began to wonder if my father had a reason for withholding his stories—if they were more sinister than I expected.
They said they heard voices, I told my father. Voices coming from the attic.
“Voices?” he asked. “What time did you girls go to bed?”
Ten. It wasn’t that late.
“You know what happens when you’re tired, right?”
I shook my head, clueless as to what my father was implying.
“You imagine things,” he merely stated.
My friends could very well be imagining the voices they heard. After all, children had a knack for exaggeration. But because of the whispers—claimed to have come from right above my bedroom ceiling—none of my friends would sleep in my house again. From that day onward, I had to go to theirs. And, for the rest of the summer, everyone thought my house was haunted.
Was I ever curious about the voices? Yes. But just like my friends, it was a fleeting curiosity. I was quick to forget the conversation I had with my father. And since no one else mentioned about hearing them, I forgot about it altogether. It was only after fifteen years—when my husband and I visited my parents—did that particular memory resurface.
“Are there people in the attic?” my husband asked.
No. Why?
“I… never mind,” he said.
What is it?
“I thought I heard something, that’s all.” When he caught apprehension sweeping across my face, he added, “I must’ve been imagining it—it was a long drive.”
Let me ask my dad.
“He’ll think I’m crazy.” My husband chuckled. “It’s probably just the fatigue. Let’s call it a night.”
I agreed—perhaps it was indeed the exhaustion. But as someone who couldn’t hear a single sound since birth, I found myself awoken in the middle of the night by an intrusion I least expected.
“I want them to leave,” a female voice whispered—words seemingly carried by the wind.
The hair on my nape stood as I pushed myself seated on the bed. While I contemplated waking my husband, I heard another voice—belonging to a man—reply, “They won’t be staying long.”
The voices were coming from above my bedroom—the same bedroom I slept in for eighteen years of my life. But as I gazed up at the ceiling, I saw nothing but well-patched plaster. Was I imagining too? Was it a dream?
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I cannot live here anymore,” the female voice insisted.
“They won’t harm us,” the other replied.
“Then why are we hiding?”
“I’ll… I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Tell him we’re selling—I’m not raising our child in a haunted house.”
Silence followed after the woman’s declaration. There were no more whispers—no more voices from the attic. I strained my ears for a decibel of a sound, but I heard nothing. Assuming it was all in my head, I returned to sleep. But when the rooster crowed, I found it hard to ignore what I had heard. So I pulled my father aside after breakfast, hopeful for a reasonable explanation.
I heard voices last night, coming from the attic.
“Voices? What kind of voices?” my father asked.
Human voices. They were talking about us.
“What time did you go to bed?”
Dad, I’m not a child.
“Then you should know better than to ask.”
What do you mean?
“I mean, go to bed early. You shouldn’t be hearing anything.”
I don’t understand. Why-
“If they can’t hear you, you can’t hear them.”
Dad, you’re not-
“Forget it,” he sternly replied.
Dad, what’s-
“The weather looks good today, doesn’t it? We should have a picnic—I’ll inform your mother.”
From that day onward, I didn’t hear the voices again. There were no more ghostly whispers. The attic was silent. And not because I went to bed early. It wasn’t even because I was deaf. There were no more voices because there was a fire—a fire I would soon have to forget for this story to repeat itself, over and over again.
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12 Genre Months © 2018 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.
(Click HERE for the list of stories in this writing challenge.)
Jeyna Grace 