One evening, after a particularly long day of trying to make sense of her hallucinations, Elena finally caved. She climbed the creaking stairs to the attic. The door was locked, but the whispers spilled out from beneath the crack like smoke, wrapping around her ankles, pulling her forward.
She forced the door open. The attic was empty. Dust swirled in the beam of her flashlight, and cobwebs hung from the rafters. Yet, the whispers grew louder.
And then she saw it.
At first, it looked like a stain on the far wall. A dark patch that shimmered like oil. But as she stepped closer, the stain rippled, and the air around it warped. Her flashlight flickered. The whispers rose into a cacophony of pleading voices.
"Help us."
"Don't let it take you."
"Run!"
The stain stretched, becoming a yawning void that seemed to pulse with malevolence. It wasn't just a hole in the wall. It was something alive. Something hungry.
Elena stumbled back, dropping her flashlight. The room plunged into darkness, and for a moment, she felt it—an icy breath against her neck. She ran, slamming the attic door behind her, but the whispers followed her down the stairs, into her dreams, into every waking moment.