Whispers from the Cellar

It started with a knock. Slow. Hollow. Like bone on wood.

At 3:06 a.m., Mia opened the front door of her grandmother's abandoned farmhouse — empty for years,

buried beneath dust and old memories. But now, it wasn't empty. She only meant to

check on the place, just for the weekend. But at night, the whispers returned. Always at the same

hour. Always from the cellar. They called her name.

Not screamed, not begged — whispered. Sweet and familiar, like her mother used to.

But her mother was gone. One night, she answered. Opened the rusted

cellar latch, descending into black so thick it swallowed