Emily’s crayon scribbled across the paper, bringing to life a stick figure with impossibly long arms and a crooked smile. “That’s Mr. Whispers,” she told her mother, her eyes gleaming with childish pride. Her mother nodded absently, distracted by the pile of bills on the kitchen table. She didn’t notice the shadow that flickered in the corner of the room, nor the way it seemed to reach out towards her daughter.
The Anderson family had moved into the old Victorian house just a month ago, hoping for a fresh start after Emily’s father passed away. The neighborhood was quiet, almost too quiet, with ancient trees lining the streets and casting long shadows across overgrown lawns. Emily, at six years old, had taken to exploring every nook and cranny of their new home, much to her mother’s chagrin. It was during one of these explorations that she first mentioned Mr. Whispers, her new friend who lived in the attic. Her mother dismissed it as a coping mechanism, a harmless fantasy born from grief and loneliness.
As days turned into weeks, Emily’s behavior began to change. She would wake up in the middle of the night, giggling and talking to someone her mother couldn’t see. Toys would move on their own, and strange scratching sounds echoed through the walls. Emily’s drawings became more disturbing—dark, twisted figures with hollow eyes and gaping maws. When questioned, she would simply say, “Mr. Whispers showed me.”
Her mother tried to rationalize it all—an overactive imagination, the stress of the move, the lingering trauma of loss. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, of cold spots in the house that seemed to follow her. One night, she found Emily’s bedroom door locked from the inside. As she pounded on the wood, calling out in panic, she heard her daughter’s laughter mingling with something else—a low, guttural chuckle that sent ice through her veins.
The breaking point came when Emily’s teacher called, concerned about the child’s sudden withdrawal and the disturbing stories she’d been telling her classmates. That evening, Emily’s mother confronted her, demanding to know the truth about Mr. Whispers. Emily’s eyes grew wide with fear, not of her mother’s anger, but of something unseen looming behind her. “He says I can’t tell,” Emily whispered, her voice trembling. “He says if I do, he’ll hurt you like he hurt Daddy.” In that moment, the lights flickered, and a cold wind swept through the room, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of decay.
Panic gripped Emily’s mother as the reality of their situation crashed down upon her. She grabbed Emily’s hand and ran for the front door, only to find it wouldn’t budge. The windows slammed shut one by one, plunging the house into darkness. Emily screamed as something unseen yanked her away, dragging her up the stairs towards the attic. Her mother gave chase, her heart pounding in her ears.
The attic door creaked open, revealing a grotesque figure hunched in the shadows. It unfurled itself, limbs stretching impossibly long, its face a twisted mockery of Emily’s crayon drawing. Mr. Whispers, no longer content to remain hidden, advanced on them with a sickening grin. Emily’s mother stood frozen in horror as memories flooded back—her husband’s unexplained accidents, his growing paranoia before his death. She realized with dawning terror that Mr. Whispers had been with them all along, patiently waiting for the right moment to strike.
In a desperate act of maternal instinct, Emily’s mother lunged at the creature, using her body as a shield to protect her daughter. Mr. Whispers howled in rage, its form shifting and writhing as it tried to reach Emily. With a strength born of pure terror, she managed to push Emily towards the attic window. “Run!” she screamed, as Mr. Whispers’ elongated fingers wrapped around her throat.
Months later, a new family moves into the old Victorian house. Their young son excitedly tells them about his new friend—a sad lady who lives in the attic with Mr. Whispers.
