Whispers of Blackthorn Lane

A reclusive archivist begins hearing voices in the walls of her inherited Victorian home—voices that

know her darkest secrets and demand confession. | Evelyn hadn’t spoken to another

soul in seventeen days. The house on Blackthorn Lane, left to her by an

aunt she barely remembered, creaked like a living thing. At first,

it was just the wind through cracked shutters. Then came the whispers—soft, wet,

and intimate—as if the plaster itself were breathing against her ear. “You lied about

the fire,” it hissed one night, as she lay rigid in bed. Evelyn’s breath

hitched. No one knew she’d left her little brother in that burning shed.