SupernaturalWhispers - Tumblr Posts

The Voice in the Vent Shaina Tranquilino October 3, 2024

Mardi had always loved the quiet of her apartment. Nestled on the top floor of an old, crumbling building, it offered the kind of solitude that she, an introvert by nature, craved. The thin walls and occasional creaks from her elderly neighbours were comforting reminders of life around her. Until, one night, something changed.

It started as a whisper—so faint, she thought it was her imagination. Lying in bed, with the soft glow of her phone casting eerie shadows on the walls, she heard it: a low, almost imperceptible murmur floating through the air vent above her bed.

At first, Mardi assumed it was Mr. Simmons from the apartment next door. The man often mumbled to himself when he couldn’t sleep, his gravelly voice barely a disturbance. But this murmur was different—sharper, cold. She strained her ears, hoping to catch a clearer phrase, but the sound vanished as quickly as it came.

By the next morning, the voice was forgotten, chalked up to the usual oddities of living in an old building. But the following night, it returned.

Mardi lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling. The whisper crawled through the vent again, this time clearer, more deliberate. It was no longer a mumble; it was a string of words, garbled and strange, as though spoken through clenched teeth.

"Help me..."

Her heart skipped a beat. She sat up, the room suddenly much colder than it should have been. Maybe one of her neighbours really was in trouble. She pressed her ear to the vent.

"He’s coming... don’t listen..."

The voice was female—shaky and distant, as though it came from some far-off place, but the air vent was the only possible source. She held her breath, waiting for more, but the voice cut off abruptly, leaving only silence.

The next morning, she knocked on Mr. Simmons' door, feeling foolish but desperate for answers. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing the frail, white-haired man.

"Good morning, Mr. Simmons," Mardi began, keeping her voice steady. "Have you heard... anything strange? From your vent, I mean."

He blinked at her, his rheumy eyes narrowing in confusion. "Strange? Like what?"

"Voices. At night. It sounds like someone’s... trapped."

Mr. Simmons shook his head, looking more puzzled than concerned. "I haven’t heard a thing, dear. Not in years. My hearing’s not what it used to be."

Mardi forced a smile and thanked him, but unease crept into her bones. If he wasn’t hearing it, who else could it be? Was it just in her head?

That night, she lay in bed again, eyes wide open, heart pounding. Hours passed in silence. She was beginning to think she really was losing it when the voice returned, louder this time.

"Get out..."

Mardi jolted upright. The voice was urgent, panicked, and much closer than before.

"He’s here... He’s watching..."

Mardi’s breath caught in her throat. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. Her eyes darted to the vent, now nothing more than a square of black metal on the ceiling, but it suddenly felt like something was staring back through it.

Before she could react, a second voice emerged—a deeper, guttural one that sent icy chills down her spine.

"Too late."

The words slithered through the vent like a hiss, dripping with malice. Mardi froze, every muscle in her body tense, as if her very survival depended on staying still. She waited, trembling, praying that whatever this was would stop.

But the whispers continued. The voices overlapped, one pleading, the other mocking, their tones battling for dominance in her mind.

"Get out!" the woman cried again.

"She’s ours now," the deeper voice growled.

The room plunged into darkness as the light flickered and went out. A rush of cold air blasted from the vent, carrying with it a foul, decayed smell. Mardi scrambled out of bed, her fingers fumbling for her phone, but it slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.

The sound of something heavy shifting in the walls echoed through the room. And then... a scraping noise. Slow, deliberate, as though nails were dragging along the metal ducts, moving closer, inch by inch.

Mardi’s eyes locked onto the vent. Something was crawling through it.

The grating noise grew louder, reverberating through the apartment. She backed away, her legs trembling beneath her, as a shadow began to take shape behind the slats of the vent. Something with long, bony fingers was pulling itself closer.

Without thinking, she bolted for the door, yanking it open and stumbling into the hallway. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she ran down the stairwell, not stopping until she was out on the street, panting, eyes wide with terror.

The next day, Mardi didn’t return to the apartment. She couldn’t. She broke her lease and moved out within a week, refusing to tell anyone the real reason why.

A month later, another tenant moved in. A young woman, eager to take advantage of the rent-controlled unit. She found it odd how quickly the previous tenant had left, but figured it was just city life.

That night, as she lay in bed, her eyes fluttering shut, a faint whisper drifted through the vent above her head.

"He’s coming..."

But this time, no one was there to warn her.

The Silent Choir Shaina Tranquilino October 4, 2024

The school hallways hummed with their usual humdrum as Ms. Daniella Goldsmith, the music teacher, made her way to her classroom. The distant chatter of students, lockers slamming shut, and footsteps clicking across the polished floors filled the air, a comforting, familiar noise.

But something had changed. It was subtle at first—a faint, almost imperceptible sound that fluttered at the edge of Daniella's hearing. As she stepped into her classroom, her fingers brushing the keys of the grand piano, the sound grew louder. A whispering chorus, so soft it could have been mistaken for the wind rustling through the leaves outside.

No one else seemed to notice.

Daniella paused, glancing around the empty room. Her students wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes, and the silence should have been absolute. Yet the choir lingered, hovering just beyond her reach. A chorus of voices—soft, eerie, and dissonant—humming a melody she couldn’t place.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Was it her imagination? She strained her ears, her pulse quickening. The voices wove together, rising and falling in a chilling harmony. Children’s voices. Ethereal, disembodied, but unmistakably real.

The choir sounded like it was coming from the walls.

Daniella shook her head, dismissing it as fatigue. She’d been staying late at the school to prepare for the winter recital, and perhaps it was wearing on her nerves. Still, the uneasy feeling lingered, clinging to her like a shadow.

The following days, the whispers grew louder.

Each time Daniella sat at her piano, the ghostly choir swelled, as if it responded to her presence. She tried asking her students, her colleagues, even the janitor if they had heard anything unusual, but no one had. They all looked at her with puzzled expressions, their replies coated in awkward politeness.

"Maybe it's stress," one of her fellow teachers had said, offering a sympathetic smile.

But Daniella knew it wasn’t stress. The choir was real.

One evening, long after the students had gone home and the school was dark and still, Daniella sat in her classroom, determined to trace the source of the voices. She followed the whispers, her feet moving as if guided by an unseen hand. The air grew colder as she moved down the hall, the song growing louder with each step.

The choir’s melody pulled her to the basement—a part of the school rarely used, its dimly lit corridors filled with dust and forgotten relics. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, the chill in the air biting at her skin.

But the choir urged her on.

Daniella descended the steps, the soft murmur of the choir rising until it became almost deafening. The basement was damp, the walls lined with old music stands, broken instruments, and forgotten school supplies. At the far end of the room, she noticed something peculiar—a section of the floor where the tiles didn’t quite match.

Her breath hitched.

A sinking feeling washed over her as she knelt to examine the tiles. The mismatched section was loose, the edges crumbling as if it had been disturbed before. Her hands shook as she pried the tiles free, revealing the earth beneath.

And then, she saw it.

Beneath the tiles, buried shallowly in the dirt, were small bones—too small to be anything but human. A wave of nausea hit her as she realized what she was seeing. Tiny skeletal remains, barely larger than a child’s arm, laid in a haphazard grave beneath the school. A grave that had been hidden for decades.

The voices surged around her, the choir now a cacophony of pain and sorrow. Their song was no longer a whisper but a wail, each note filled with agony. The children’s voices—their ethereal lament—finally made sense.

Daniella stumbled backward, her heart pounding in her chest. Her mind raced as pieces of a forgotten story began to fall into place. Decades ago, before the school had been rebuilt, a fire had ravaged the old building. It was a tragedy that had been quietly erased from the school’s history. Children had died in that fire, their bodies never found.

Until now.

The Silent Choir wasn’t just a strange phenomenon. It was a plea for justice, a desperate cry from the forgotten children whose bones had been buried and forgotten beneath the school.

Daniella could barely breathe as the voices crescendoed, the weight of their suffering crashing down on her. She had uncovered the school’s dark secret, and now the ghosts of the past demanded to be heard.

The next morning, Daniella stood outside the principal’s office, clutching the school’s old records in her trembling hands. The weight of the truth pressed down on her, but she knew what she had to do.

The Silent Choir had been silenced for too long.

As she opened the door, the whispers followed her, lingering in the air like an unfinished song.