My neighbor is 78, she lives alone. A kind and quiet woman. I noticed that a young man started coming to see her. It would have been nothing, but after he came I would hear screaming. I started to worry, so one day I knocked on the door. They were quiet. And then the door opens and there’s this old lady wearing… a black silk dress. It was an odd choice for someone who was always in simple house dresses, but that wasn’t the strangest part.
Her eyes looked different—almost vacant, distant—as though she didn’t recognize me. She had always been polite, and we’d exchanged pleasantries before, but now she seemed as if I was a stranger.
I froze. “Is everything okay, Mrs. Whitaker?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, but the uneasy feeling in my stomach grew stronger by the second.
She looked me up and down, and then her lips curled into a faint smile. “Oh, yes… everything is fine, dear. Just fine.” But her voice was strangely cold, as though she were reciting lines rather than speaking from the heart.
I glanced over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young man I’d seen her with. I hadn’t seen him leave, and it was unlike her to have guests so late in the evening. He wasn’t in the hallway or the living room, though, so I asked, “Is your friend still here?”
The smile on Mrs. Whitaker’s face faltered for a brief moment, and she took a step back, almost instinctively. “He’s… gone,” she said quickly, her voice shaking slightly, like she was trying to convince herself as much as me.
I was about to ask more, but before I could, the silence was broken by a faint sound—almost like a soft whisper, or perhaps a cry. It came from the other side of the house, muffled but unmistakable. My heart skipped a beat. I knew what it sounded like—someone in pain.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” I started, my voice low with concern. “I heard something. Is everything really alright?”
She stared at me, her eyes clouding over for a moment before she blinked and looked away. “It’s nothing, dear. Don’t worry about it,” she said quickly, a little too quickly. “Just a bad dream, nothing more.”
But the fear creeping through my veins told me something was off. Mrs. Whitaker wasn’t acting like herself, and the sounds… they weren’t something I could dismiss.
“Are you sure?” I pressed gently, hoping she’d confide in me, but she only shook her head as though trying to push away the words I was saying.
“I’m fine, really,” she repeated, her voice now a little more strained.
I didn’t believe her. My gut told me to be cautious, to push further. But something in the way she stood there, so composed yet somehow hollow, made me hesitate.
Just as I was about to turn away and leave, I saw the shadow move. It was subtle at first—just a flicker at the end of the hallway, but it was enough to make my pulse race.
“Mrs. Whitaker, who’s that?” I asked, stepping forward, my eyes drawn to the movement.
For a split second, her expression hardened. She glanced down the hall, her face paling as if she’d seen a ghost. Then, her eyes met mine again, and the mask of calm returned.
“It’s nothing,” she said quietly, but this time, her voice cracked. “You should go now. I’m fine.”
I didn’t want to push her further, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. As I turned to leave, I heard it again—the whisper, clearer this time, like a voice begging for help. I spun around, but the door had already clicked shut behind me.
I couldn’t ignore what I’d heard. The sounds of distress, the sudden shift in Mrs. Whitaker’s behavior—it all felt too off. I promised myself I’d come back in the morning. Maybe then, I’d find out what was really going on behind that door. But deep down, I feared what I might discover. Something told me this wasn’t just a case of an old lady losing her mind. There was something darker at play.
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