The Whisper in the Walls The Whisper in The Walls J u l i a a . G i r a r d “They say she’s looking for him... but he’s long gone. Isn’t he?” Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book The Whisper in the Walls The Whisper in the Walls Julia A. Girard Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Whisper in the Walls T he storm raged across the countryside , lash- ing the trees with torrents of rain and howling winds. Lightning illuminated the jagged sil- houette of Blackwood Manor atop its lonely hill, its crumbling facade looking like the face of a ghost fro- zen in eternal despair. Thunder followed, a rumbling growl that seemed to shake the very earth. Inside the manor, the air was heavy with mildew and time. Cobwebs draped the chandelier like tat- tered lace, and the faded wallpaper curled at the edges. The great hall, once a place of grandeur, now held only shadows and secrets. The patter of rain against broken windows added an eerie rhythm to the stillness, punctuated by the occasional groan of old wood. Julia A. Girard A young man, lantern in hand, stood at the base of the grand staircase. Edward, the local historian, had been dared to spend the night in Blackwood Manor, a fool’s errand, he now realized. He was not a super- stitious man, but the stories he had heard as a child about Lady Eleanor Blackwood made his skin crawl. “They say she walks these halls,” he muttered to himself, his voice trembling despite his effort to stay calm. “They say she’s looking for him... but he’s long gone. Isn’t he?” The lantern cast a weak glow, its flickering light barely piercing the darkness. Edward’s breath came in shallow bursts as he climbed the staircase, each step creaking beneath his weight. At the top, a long corridor stretched before him, lined with portraits of grim-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow his every move. As he reached the middle of the hall, a sudden gust of wind extinguished the lantern. Edward froze, his heart pounding. “Hello?” he called, his voice echoing down the empty corridor. Silence answered him, but then he heard it, a faint whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves. The Whisper in the Walls “Who’s there?” Edward demanded, backing against the wall. The whisper grew louder, words forming within the chilling breeze. “Find him... or they will never rest.” “Who? Find who?” Edward’s voice cracked as he fumbled with the lantern. In the brief sparks of the flint, he saw a figure at the far end of the hall, a wom- an in a pale dress, her hair flowing as if caught in an unseen current. Her face was hidden in shadow, but her presence radiated a cold that seeped into Ed- ward’s bones. He dropped the lantern and bolted, his footsteps echoing wildly as he stumbled down the stairs. The whispers followed him, louder now, almost insistent. “Find him... Find him!” Reaching the foyer, Edward tripped and fell, sprawling across the dusty floor. When he looked up, the woman was there, standing at the bottom of the staircase. Her face was pale and gaunt, her eyes burn- ing with a sorrow so deep it pierced his soul. “Leave me alone!” he screamed, crawling back- ward. Julia A. Girard “You cannot leave,” the woman said, her voice a mix of anger and despair. “Not until you listen.” Edward shook his head violently. “You’re not real. This is just some trick of the mind. It’s the storm...” The woman moved closer, her form flickering like a candle flame. “He’s here,” she hissed, her voice cut- ting through his denial. “Arthur Blackwood. He has never left this house.” “Arthur?” Edward stammered. “But he’s dead. He disappeared years ago!” “Death does not absolve him,” she whispered, her face twisting with fury. “He bound himself to this place, just as I am bound. You must find him. Only then will I, and those he wronged, find peace.” Edward felt a chill seep into his skin as her words sank in. The legend had always said Lady Eleanor was searching for her husband’s ghost, but he had thought it just a tale. “I... I don’t know how,” Edward stammered. The woman raised her hand, and a cold wind swirled around him, lifting the fallen lantern and placing it back in his trembling hands. “Search the at- The Whisper in the Walls tic,” she commanded. “There you will find the truth. Do not fail me.” Before Edward could respond, the storm outside intensified, and the house seemed to shudder as if alive. The woman vanished, leaving only the faint scent of lavender in her wake. Edward sat there, the weight of her demand press- ing down on him. He glanced toward the grand stair- case, its shadowed summit now seeming like the gap- ing maw of a beast. Search the attic, her voice echoed in his mind. Taking a deep breath, Edward stood and lit the lan- tern. The flame flickered weakly, but it held. Gripping the handle tightly, he started up the stairs again, each step taking him closer to the secrets hidden within Blackwood Manor. Behind him, the candle in the foyer guttered out, plunging the house into darkness once more. Julia A. Girard I. Clara Blackwood tightened her coat around her as the taxi climbed the winding road toward Black- wood Manor. The storm had stopped hours ago, but the overcast sky and occasional crackle of distant thunder seemed reluctant to let the day brighten. “Here we are, miss,” said the driver, pulling to a stop outside the wrought-iron gates. He hesitated, looking at her through the rearview mirror. “You sure you want to stay here? Folks around here say that place is cursed.” Clara smiled politely. “I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine.” The driver shrugged, got out, and helped her with her bags. As he placed them on the gravel path, he glanced nervously at the towering mansion beyond The Whisper in the Walls the gates. Its gothic spires reached for the sky like bony fingers, and its cracked facade bore the marks of time and neglect. “Good luck,” he said, tipping his hat before hurry- ing back to the cab. Clara watched him drive away before turning to face her inheritance. She gripped the heavy iron gate and pushed it open. The rusted hinges groaned loud- ly, as if the manor itself resented her presence. Inside the grand foyer, the air was thick with dust and the faint scent of lavender. Sunlight filtered weakly through stained glass windows, casting frag- mented rainbows on the cracked marble floor. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its crystals dulled by grime. Clara set her suitcase down and surveyed the room. The place was a far cry from the vague mem- ories she had of her childhood visits. Back then, the mansion had been alive with light and voices. Now it was silent, save for the occasional creak of wood as the house settled. “Miss Blackwood,” called a voice behind her. She turned to see Mr. Hargrove, the family lawyer, Julia A. Girard standing in the doorway. He was a tall, thin man with a face as wrinkled as the documents he always car- ried. “Mr. Hargrove,” she greeted, extending a hand. He shook it briefly before glancing around the room. “You’re braver than most. Most of the family wouldn’t step foot in this house.” “Most of the family didn’t inherit it,” Clara replied dryly. Hargrove chuckled nervously and handed her a folder. “Here are the keys and the deed. A word of ad- vice ...sell it. Quickly. The manor has... a reputation.” “Let me guess. Ghosts?” Clara asked, raising an eyebrow. Hargrove hesitated, then nodded. “Lady Eleanor Blackwood’s ghost, to be precise. She was your great- great-aunt. People say she roams the halls, seeking vengeance for her untimely death.” Clara snorted. “I’m sure the stories are just that, stories. I have no intention of selling, Mr. Hargrove. This house is part of my family’s history, and I plan to restore it.” The Whisper in the Walls Hargrove sighed, his expression a mixture of pity and resignation. “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.” He tipped his hat and left, the heavy front door closing behind him with an echoing thud. Clara spent the afternoon exploring the manor. Most of the rooms were locked, their doors swol- len shut by time and neglect. She discovered an old parlour filled with covered furniture, a dining room where a long table stretched beneath a crumbling chandelier, and a library with shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten books. In the hallway outside the library, she stopped in front of a portrait. The woman depicted was beauti- ful, with striking blue eyes and dark hair swept into an elegant bun. But someone had scratched out the eyes, leaving jagged streaks across the canvas. Clara shivered and moved on. As she continued down the hall, a faint smell of lavender wafted past her, growing stronger as she approached a locked door at the end. The door was carved with ornate de- signs, and above it, an inscription read: “Here lies truth.” Julia A. Girard She tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Frus- trated, she stepped back and made a mental note to find the key. That night, Clara settled into one of the least dilap- idated bedrooms. The bed creaked under her weight as she lay down, and the wind outside whistled through cracks in the windows. She tried to sleep, but the creaking floors and distant sounds of drip- ping water kept her awake. At midnight, the old grandfather clock in the foyer began to chime. Clara sat up, counting the strikes. Twelve... thirteen. She frowned. “That’s not right,” she muttered. Then she heard it, a faint sobbing sound, like a woman crying. Clara’s pulse quickened. She slipped out of bed, grabbed a flashlight, and opened the door. The sob- bing grew louder as she stepped into the hallway. The lavender scent returned, stronger now, almost suffo- cating. “Hello?” she called. The sobbing stopped abruptly. Clara hesitated, The Whisper in the Walls then followed the scent and sound toward the locked door with the inscription. To her surprise, the door was slightly ajar. “That’s impossible,” she whispered. Steeling herself, Clara pushed the door open. Be- yond it was a narrow staircase leading up into dark- ness. She climbed cautiously, the steps groaning be- neath her weight. At the top, she found an attic filled with forgotten relics: trunks, broken furniture, and a rocking chair that creaked as if someone had just left it. On a small table sat a leather-bound diary. Clara opened it, the faint scent of lavender rising from its pages. The entries were written in an elegant hand: “He watches me constantly. I can’t escape his gaze.” “He says he loves me, but his love is cruel. I fear he will kill me.” The final entry chilled Clara to the core: “If you find this, avenge me.” A sudden gust of wind slammed the attic door Julia A. Girard shut. Clara spun around, her flashlight flickering. The rocking chair began to move on its own, creak- ing rhythmically. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice shaking. The lavender scent grew overpowering, and the air grew icy. Then, a faint voice whispered in her ear: “Find him...” Clara dropped the diary and fled, her footsteps echoing as she ran back to her room. As she slammed the door behind her, she could still hear the faint sound of sobbing, growing louder, and the chilling whisper repeated: “Find him...” The Whisper in the Walls II. Clara stood in the dim library, staring at the hidden compartment she had pried open in the oak desk. Inside lay a leather-bound journal, its edges worn with age and the cover embossed with an elaborate “A.” She turned the book over in her hands, the air around her thick with the lingering scent of lavender. The library felt alive, each creak of the wood, each whisper of wind through the cracked windows, seemed to watch her every move. Swallowing her ap- prehension, she flipped open the journal. The first entry was neat and precise, written in a sharp, masculine hand. “Eleanor is mine. Body and soul. Yet she resists. She doesn’t understand my devotion, my need to preserve her forever.” Julia A. Girard Clara’s breath caught. This was Arthur Blackwood’s writing, the man accused of murdering her great- great-aunt Eleanor. As Clara continued reading, a chilling pattern emerged. Arthur’s entries grew more erratic, detail- ing his obsession with alchemy and his belief that death could be conquered. “The answers lie in the elements,” one entry read. “The ritual must be completed. She will see. She will thank me for eternity.” The final pages hinted at something darker: a ritual performed to bind Arthur’s soul to the manor, ensur- ing he would never truly die. The last entry stopped abruptly: “The attic holds the answer.” Clara slammed the journal shut, her heart pound- ing. A cold breeze swept through the library, extin- guishing the solitary candle she had lit. “Clara...” The voice was soft and mournful, but it filled the room. Clara spun around, clutching the journal. The Whisper in the Walls “Who’s there?” she demanded. From the corner of the library, a faint glow began to form. It grew brighter, coalescing into the translu- cent figure of a woman. Her face was pale and ethe- real, framed by dark, flowing hair. “Eleanor?” Clara whispered. The ghost nodded, her expression a mixture of sor- row and urgency. “Leave this place,” Eleanor said, her voice echoing as though it came from a distant void. “He grows stronger. He will destroy you as he destroyed me.” Clara stepped closer, ignoring the chill that seeped into her bones. “I can’t leave. I found your diary. I know what he did to you. Let me help you find jus- tice.” Eleanor’s form flickered, and she turned her gaze to the journal in Clara’s hands. “Justice? You don’t understand. Arthur isn’t gone. His soul remains teth- ered here, feeding on the fear and despair of those who enter.” Clara clenched her jaw. “If he’s still here, then there’s a way to stop him. Tell me how.” Julia A. Girard The ghost hesitated, her luminous figure dimming slightly. “You must find proof of his crimes. The truth was erased from history. Without it, his spirit will never be bound to the afterlife.” Clara nodded, determination hardening her re- solve. “Then I’ll find it. Whatever it takes.” Eleanor’s eyes, once mournful, flared with a spark of hope. “But beware,” she said. “He watches. He lis- tens. And he will do everything in his power to stop you.” Before Clara could respond, the temperature in the room plummeted further, and Eleanor vanished in a swirl of icy mist. Determined to uncover the truth, Clara spent the next day scouring the manor. As she moved through its decaying halls, the house seemed to resist her ef- forts. Doors slammed shut on their own, mirrors cracked without warning, and faint whispers echoed from empty rooms. In one particularly unnerving moment, Clara entered the drawing room to find strange symbols etched into the walls, circles, runes, and jagged lines that pulsed faintly with an otherworldly glow. She