The wind didn't howl— it whispered.
Soft, like a sigh caught between the throat of the forest and the bones of the house.
Aanya stood at the edge of the estate, the cracked gravel path groaning under her boots as if it hadn't been touched in decades. It hadn't.
And yet... it remembered her.
The iron gate, once gleaming black, now hung crooked—its metal twisted like something had clawed it open. Vines threaded through it like veins, pulsing under the dying light of evening.
The key felt heavier in her pocket than it should have.
Brass. Ancient. Too warm.
She hadn't wanted to come back. Not after what she saw that night. Not after the screams.
Not after her aunt vanished into Room 13 and was never seen again.
But the letter came with no return address. Just a wax seal pressed with the same crest she used to trace with her tiny fingers on the ballroom walls—the serpent curled around a bleeding moon. The family emblem.
"You are the last. The House is waking."
Aanya should have burned it. She almost did.
But something in the ink had tugged at her ribs—like it knew her heart had never left.
She stepped forward.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and dampness… and something else.
Grief. Rot. Expectation.
The grand chandelier above her still hung like a funeral crown, though one of the crystals had fallen and shattered on the marble floor.
The echo of her first step returned to her with a delay—as if someone else had stepped just after she did.
She froze.
The air stilled.
Her eyes scanned the shadows. Nothing moved. Nothing spoke. But her body reacted differently—her skin crawled, her breath quickened.
She wasn't alone.
She knew that before she'd even reached the staircase.
Each step upward creaked—not with weight, but with recognition.
The Withered House hadn't forgotten her. It greeted her with the same groaning wood and flickering candle sconces.
But it felt... tighter.
Like the walls were inching closer every time she blinked.
At the top of the stairs, the hall stretched like a spine—long and curved, lined with doors she remembered by their numbers.
Except one.
Room 13 had no number.
It never did.
Only a bronze handle in the shape of a raven's beak.
Aanya paused. Her fingers twitched. Her throat was dry.
She hadn't stepped near this door in twelve years.
The night her aunt disappeared, the door had been locked.
No sound came from behind it. Just that overwhelming, suffocating perfume—jasmine and old parchment.
And a single sound that still haunted her:
The slow dragging of a fingernail across the wooden floor.
Now, the door stood slightly ajar.
She hadn't touched it.
She swore she hadn't touched it.
"Aunt Veena?" she whispered into the dark.
No answer.
But something did shift inside the room.
A breeze. A breath. A silence that held something alive.
Her hand trembled as she pushed the door.
Room 13 smelled just as she remembered.
Like perfume left too long on lace. Like secrets. Like blood under the floorboards.
The curtains fluttered, though the windows were sealed. The mirror on the far wall was covered with a white sheet—though the sheet looked too clean, too new.
And on the desk… was her aunt's journal.
Open.
The last entry read:
"I saw him again. In the mirror. He smiled this time. I shouldn't have touched the glass. He's not just watching anymore…"
Aanya's stomach twisted.
Something creaked behind her.
She turned too fast—and knocked the candle to the ground.
Darkness devoured the room.
A whisper caressed her neck.
"You came back."
Her heart thudded. She spun around again, candle still in hand, unlit.
No one.
But her reflection—her own reflection—was staring at her from the mirror, even though it was still covered.
She could see it—see herself—beneath the sheet.
Eyes wide. Lips trembling. And someone else standing behind her.
She whirled—
No one.
"Leave!" she choked out. "This house isn't mine anymore!"
But it didn't care. The floorboards groaned. The chandelier overhead tinkled slightly.
And then, a soft, male voice from behind her—low and intimate, like a dream:
"You were never meant to leave."
She turned.
This time, someone was there.
A man—half in shadow, half in the cold sliver of moonlight bleeding through the crack in the curtains.
Tall. Earth-stained boots. Collar slightly open.His eyes gleamed—not red. Not black. Just… ancient.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
He stepped closer, and her body pulled back without meaning to.
Not in fear. In instinct.
"Someone the house won't let go," he murmured.
"Just like you."
And then… he vanished.
Not into smoke.
Not into shadow.
He simply blinked out—like he'd never been.
But Aanya knew.
ROOM 13 WAS NEVER EMPTY
And it still wasn't
***
AUTHOR'S NOTE - From Zara@VexInk
Dear Shadows and Seekers,
You've now stepped into the heart of the House—and it knows you're here.
This story isn't just about horror.
It's about secrets you never dared to remember, desires you tried to bury, and whispers that sound eerily like your name.
The Withered House doesn't welcome visitors. It chooses them.
If you're reading this…
It might have chosen you too.
🕯️
Stay close. Stay silent.
And never trust what you see in the mirror.
Comment for chapter 2
—Zara
The Queen Who Writes in Whispers