The last voice

Rain fell relentlessly over the town of Ashridge, turning its narrow streets into rivers of shimmering darkness. Thunder rolled across the sky like distant drums, shaking windows and sending stray dogs running for shelter. It was the kind of night that made people lock their doors early and whisper old stories around dying fireplaces. Ashridge was an ordinary town during the day. Children laughed on their way to school, shopkeepers greeted familiar faces, and farmers worked the fields beyond the hills. But when the sun disappeared, everything changed. By sunset, the streets emptied. Curtains were drawn. Doors were locked. And no one—absolutely no one—went near Blackwood Manor. The old mansion stood alone on a hill overlooking the town, surrounded by towering oak trees whose twisted branches looked like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. The iron gate was rusted with age, and thick ivy swallowed the cracked stone walls. Every window was dark, yet many swore they had seen someone watching from inside. For more than twenty years, people had vanished. Some disappeared after claiming they had heard voices calling their names. Others were last seen walking toward the manor late at night. A few returned days later, but they were never the same. They refused to speak about what had happened. Some lost their memories. Others spent the rest of their lives terrified of the dark. No one knew the truth. Only the whispers remained. Miles away, twenty-seven-year-old investigative journalist Amara Cole sat alone in the nearly empty newsroom, rubbing her tired eyes as she stared at another unfinished article. She had spent months exposing corrupt businessmen and dishonest politicians. Ghost stories had never interested her. Her phone vibrated across the desk. Unknown Number. She hesitated before answering. "Hello?" Silence. Then came the faint crackle of static. Just as she was about to hang up, a weak voice spoke. "They're still alive." Amara frowned. "Who is this?" No answer. Instead, the voice whispered again, slower this time. "Beneath... the house." The call ended. Her heart beat faster as she looked at the dark screen. A second later, her phone buzzed again. This time it was an audio file with no sender's name. Curiosity got the better of her. She pressed play. For several seconds there was only static. Then she heard footsteps. Heavy breathing. A metallic clang. Someone crying in the distance. Finally, a trembling voice whispered, "If anyone hears this... don't trust..." A loud crash interrupted the sentence. The recording ended abruptly. Amara replayed it. She listened again and again. Each time she noticed another sound hidden beneath the static—a slow, rhythmic tapping, as though someone trapped in darkness was desperately trying to be heard. Outside the newsroom window, lightning flashed across the sky. Without knowing why, Amara opened her laptop and searched for one name she had barely heard before. Blackwood Manor. Hundreds of old newspaper headlines appeared on the screen. "Teenagers Missing Near Abandoned Estate." "Police Suspend Search After Seven Days." "Locals Warn Visitors to Stay Away." She leaned closer. Every article ended the same way. No answers. No suspects. Only silence. Then another notification appeared on her phone. A single message. "Come before it's too late." No name. No number. Only those five chilling words. Amara looked out at the storm. Something told her that by morning, her life would never be the same. The drive to Ashridge took almost five hours. As the city skyline disappeared behind her, Amara noticed the scenery changing. Busy highways gave way to narrow country roads lined with ancient trees. The deeper she drove, the fewer cars she saw. Even the radio stations faded into static. She glanced at her phone. No signal. "Perfect," she muttered. The rain had stopped, but thick gray clouds still covered the sky. The road wound through dense woodland, and every now and then she caught sight of weathered signposts pointing toward forgotten villages. Finally, a faded wooden sign appeared beside the road. WELCOME TO ASHRIDGE The paint was peeling, and someone had scratched strange symbols into the wood. Amara slowed her car. Something about the town felt... wrong. It wasn't silent. Birds sang in the distance, and the wind rustled through the trees. Yet it felt as though the entire place was holding its breath. She drove into the town square, expecting to find people chatting outside cafés or children playing nearby. Instead, everyone seemed unusually cautious. Conversations stopped whenever she walked past. Several people glanced at her with curiosity, but their expressions quickly changed to concern. She parked beside a small café. A tiny brass bell rang as she stepped inside. The warm smell of fresh coffee filled the room. Behind the counter stood an elderly woman with silver hair tied neatly behind her head. "You're not from here," the woman said before Amara spoke a single word. Amara smiled politely. "No. I'm looking into the history of Blackwood Manor." The woman's smile disappeared. The coffee cup she was drying slipped slightly in her hands. "I think you've come to the wrong town." "I only need information." "There isn't any." "I've read about the disappearances." "So has everyone else." "Were they ever solved?" The woman looked toward the window before lowering her voice. "Some questions don't have answers." Amara noticed several customers pretending not to listen. One man stood abruptly, paid for his drink, and hurried outside. Another woman whispered something to her husband, and together they left without finishing their meal. Within seconds, the café was nearly empty. The elderly woman leaned closer. "If you value your life..." She stopped speaking. A shadow passed across the front window. Someone was standing outside. Watching. Amara turned. A tall man wearing a dark coat stood perfectly still on the opposite side of the street. His face was hidden beneath the brim of a black hat. The moment she looked directly at him, he walked away. "Who was that?" Amara asked. The woman shook her head. "I didn't see anyone." "But—" "You should leave Ashridge before nightfall." Her voice trembled. "Please." Amara thanked her, paid for the coffee she hadn't even touched, and stepped back outside. The man in the dark coat had vanished. Only damp footprints remained on the pavement. She followed them around the corner. They ended abruptly. As though whoever had made them had simply disappeared. Trying to ignore the strange feeling creeping over her, Amara checked into the town's only guesthouse. The owner, Mr. Ellis, greeted her politely, but his expression changed when she wrote the reason for her visit in the guest register. "Research?" he asked. "Yes." "What are you researching?" "Blackwood Manor." His pen froze. For several seconds he stared at the page For a split second, she caught sight of a pale face between the branches. Wide eyes. Expressionless. Watching. The light flickered. When it steadied, the face had disappeared. A cold breeze rushed through the forest, carrying with it a whisper so soft she almost mistook it for the wind. "Go... back..." Amara froze. The whisper came again. This time it sounded closer. "Leave..." Her fingers tightened around the flashlight. Every instinct told her to turn around and run. Instead, she took another step toward Blackwood Manor. Far ahead, barely visible through the trees, the outline of the mansion emerged against the darkening sky. Its broken windows reflected the last traces of daylight like hollow eyes. Somewhere inside the abandoned house... Something moved. The mansion stood in absolute silence. Amara remained frozen at the edge of the overgrown path, her flashlight trembling slightly in her hand. The beam swept across the rusted iron gate, revealing vines that had wrapped themselves around the bars like giant snakes. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of wet earth and decaying wood. She checked her phone. No signal. Not even a single bar. Taking a slow breath, she pushed against the gate. It refused to move. She pushed harder. With a long, piercing groan, the rusted hinges finally gave way. The sound echoed through the forest, startling a flock of crows from the trees. Hundreds of black wings burst into the sky at once, filling the darkness with frantic cries. Amara instinctively looked upward. One crow remained behind. It sat on the highest branch of a dead oak tree, watching her without blinking. Its eyes reflected the moonlight. For a strange moment, she felt as though it wasn't an ordinary bird. It was waiting. Watching. Judging. She shook the thought from her mind and stepped through the gate. The path leading to Blackwood Manor was cracked and uneven. Tall weeds brushed against her legs with every step. Pieces of broken statues lay scattered across the garden, their faces worn away by time. Near the entrance stood what had once been a beautiful fountain. Now it was dry. Covered with moss. In the center stood the stone figure of a young girl holding a lantern. Someone had carved a single sentence into the base of the statue. DON'T LISTEN TO THE VOICES. Amara ran her fingers over the carved letters. The cuts looked surprisingly fresh. Someone had written the warning recently. She photographed it before continuing. The front door of the mansion was enormous, made of dark oak reinforced with rusting iron. Deep scratches covered the lower half of the wood. Animal claws? Or something else? She reached for the handle. Locked. Just as she turned away, a loud bang echoed from inside the house. She spun around. Silence. Another bang. This time it came from somewhere upstairs. Someone—or something—was inside. Her pulse quickened. She circled the building, searching for another entrance. Most of the windows were boarded shut, but on the eastern side she found one that had shattered years ago. Carefully brushing away loose glass, she climbed through. The air inside was much colder than outside. Her flashlight revealed a vast hallway coated in dust. Torn wallpaper hung from the walls, and an old chandelier dangled precariously from the ceiling. Yet something immediately caught her attention. The floor. There were footprints. Fresh footprints. Someone had walked through the dust only hours earlier. She knelt beside them. Large boot prints. The same size as the ones she had seen on the forest road. She followed them deeper into the mansion. The hallway opened into a grand dining room where a long wooden table stretched almost from one end of the room to the other. Broken plates still sat where someone had left them decades ago. An overturned chair lay in one corner. Everything appeared frozen in time. Then she noticed something impossible. One place at the table was perfectly clean. No dust. No cobwebs. As if someone had been sitting there recently. A sudden chill swept across the room. The flashlight flickered. Once. Twice. Then it went out completely. Darkness swallowed everything. Amara's breathing grew louder. She hit the flashlight against her palm. Nothing. The silence pressed against her ears. Then she heard it. Three slow knocks. Knock. Knock. Knock. The exact same pattern from the recording. The sound came from beneath the floor. She dropped to one knee and placed her hand on the wooden boards. Another three knocks answered. Knock. Knock. Knock. Someone was down there. And they were trying to communicate. Before she could react, a faint whisper drifted through the darkness. "So... you came." Amara's heart pounded. The voice sounded weak. Almost exhausted. "Who's there?" she called. No reply. Only silence. Then, somewhere behind her, another voice whispered close enough to make her skin crawl. "Don't answer them." She whirled around. Her flashlight suddenly sprang back to life. The beam swept across the empty room. No one. No movement. Nothing except the dusty furniture and cracked walls. But on the table, where there had been nothing moments before, lay a small cassette tape. It hadn't been there before.