FearTheUnknown - Tumblr Posts

The Forgotten Cellar Shaina Tranquilino October 5, 2024

The Harrisons moved into the old Victorian house on the outskirts of town with the kind of enthusiasm that accompanies a fresh start. The house was a bargain—too good to pass up. Rebecca, her husband Gerald, and their son, Caleb marvelled at the high ceilings, the vintage wallpaper, and the spacious rooms. It felt like a dream, albeit one wrapped in a bit of dust and cobwebs.

The cellar door was the only thing out of place. It sat at the end of a narrow hallway in the kitchen, locked with a heavy, rusted chain. Rebecca had asked the realtor about it, but all she’d said was that the previous owners had forgotten about it. The key, like the history of the house, was lost to time.

"It’s just a storage space," Gerald had said, brushing off Rebecca's concerns. "We can deal with it later."

But on the first night, Rebecca heard it—the whispers.

She had been lying in bed, half-asleep, when a soft, disembodied murmur floated up through the floorboards. She strained her ears, thinking it was the wind or maybe the house settling. The house was old, after all. But the longer she listened, the clearer it became.

“Please... let me out...”

Rebecca sat up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest. The voice was faint, almost pleading, rising from somewhere deep below the house.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, shaking Gerald awake.

"Hear what?" he mumbled, rolling over.

"The whispering... from downstairs."

He frowned, still half-asleep. "Probably just the pipes. This place is ancient."

Rebecca wasn’t convinced, but she let it go, hoping it was just her imagination playing tricks on her in the unfamiliar home.

The next night, the whispering came again, louder this time. And this time, she wasn’t the only one who heard it.

"Mom?" Caleb’s small voice quivered from the doorway of their bedroom. "There’s someone downstairs. I heard them."

Rebecca's skin prickled with dread. She glanced at Gerald, who had now fully woken, his brow furrowed. They sat in silence for a moment, listening. There it was again—a faint, desperate whisper.

“Please... help me…”

Rebecca's stomach turned. It was coming from beneath the floorboards, from the cellar.

"We need to see what’s down there," Rebecca said, her voice barely above a whisper. Gerald hesitated, but the unease in his eyes mirrored her own.

Armed with a flashlight and a crowbar, Gerald made his way to the cellar door the next morning. Rebecca stood behind him, her heart in her throat as he forced the rusted chain from the door. The heavy wooden door groaned open, releasing a rush of cold, damp air that smelled of earth and something else—something rotten.

The stairs creaked as Gerald descended, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness. Rebecca followed, holding Caleb’s hand tightly. The cellar was larger than they had imagined, the walls lined with crumbling stone and ancient wooden beams. But something else caught their attention—a large, decrepit trunk in the corner, covered in dust.

Rebecca's pulse quickened as they approached it. The whispers had stopped, but the air felt thick with an unspoken presence. Gerald knelt down, hesitating before unlatching the trunk.

It creaked open slowly.

Inside, there were no treasures or old clothes as they had expected. Instead, the remains of a person—a skeleton, curled up, bound in chains—lay within. Rebecca gasped, stepping back in horror, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Who... who is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before Gerald could respond, the whispering began again, louder now, filling the cellar with an oppressive weight.

“Please... set me free...”

The voice was coming from the skeleton. Rebecca's blood ran cold as the realization dawned on her. The whispers weren’t just voices in her head. They were real.

As if responding to the plea, the chains around the skeleton began to rattle, slowly unwinding themselves from the brittle bones. Rebecca stumbled back, dragging Caleb with her as Gerald froze in place, his eyes wide with terror.

“We have to go!" Rebecca screamed, her voice shaking. She pulled Gerald toward the stairs, but the air grew thick, almost solid, as if something unseen was holding them in place. The whispers intensified, turning into anguished cries.

"Let me out... let me out!"

Suddenly, the cellar door slammed shut above them, plunging the room into darkness. Rebecca's flashlight flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows on the walls as the temperature dropped further. She felt an icy hand brush her arm, the faint whisper now right in her ear.

“Stay with me…”

With a burst of panic-fueled strength, Gerald lunged toward the door, yanking it open. They scrambled up the stairs, slamming the door behind them. The whispers were muffled now but still persistent, like a voice trapped beneath layers of earth, desperate to be heard.

They left the house that night, too afraid to stay another minute in the presence of whatever haunted the cellar.

Weeks later, the house stood empty, its windows dark and its doors locked. No one spoke of the Harrisons or the skeleton in the cellar, as if the house itself had swallowed their secret. But on quiet nights, if you stood close enough, you could still hear the whispers rising from below.

“Please... help me... let me out…”

The house waited, patient and silent, for the next family to come.

The Insistent Whisper Shaina Tranquilino October 11, 2024

Detective Aaron Greaves sat in his car, staring out at the cold rain that slicked the streets of Hollowbrook. The town was small, sleepy, but not without its horrors. Eight people had vanished in as many weeks, leaving no trace, no evidence, and no hope. Greaves had investigated homicides for over fifteen years, but this case was different. No blood, no bodies, just an ever-present sense of something watching. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the cracked window. His eyes flickered toward the abandoned mill, where the most recent victim, a schoolteacher, had last been seen. The place was a ruin, decaying and forgotten, but Greaves couldn't shake the feeling that something there held answers — something hidden, waiting to be found.

He was about to step out of the car when he heard it for the first time.

"I know who did it."

Greaves froze, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The voice had come from the back seat — faint, a whisper just above a breath. He spun around, the shadows thick in the back of the car, but no one was there.

He turned back, shook his head. Stress, he told himself. Too many late nights, too many dead ends. He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and climbed out of the car, ignoring the faint chill crawling down his spine.

The second time, it was louder.

"I know who did it."

Greaves was standing by the mill's entrance, flashlight sweeping through the yawning blackness beyond. The voice was clear, like someone standing just behind him. He turned again, sharply this time, his heart thudding. The only sound was the rain tapping against the rotting wood of the building.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice firm but betraying a note of unease. Silence answered him.

He entered the mill, his footsteps echoing on the damp floorboards. The air was thick with rot, the smell of mold curling into his nostrils. He pushed deeper inside, heart beating fast, senses on high alert. The voice hadn’t come again, but it lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at his nerves.

By the time he reached the center of the mill, he felt it again: a presence, unseen but palpable. His flashlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows along the walls.

"I know who did it," the whisper came again, this time insistent.

Greaves whipped around, his flashlight beam shaking. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice rough.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, the whisper came once more, closer this time, intimate.

"I can tell you... but there’s a price."

Greaves’ blood ran cold. The whisper wasn’t coming from outside him. It was inside his head, curling through his mind like smoke. His grip tightened on the flashlight.

"I don’t make deals with voices in my head," he muttered, trying to shake off the growing unease. But something about the whisper felt ancient, powerful. It slithered through his thoughts like it belonged there.

"You want to know, don’t you? The killer’s right under your nose. I can show you. But first… you must give me something in return."

Greaves pressed a hand to his temple, willing the voice away. "What are you?"

"What I am doesn’t matter, Detective. What matters is that I know the truth. And you… you want to catch him, don’t you?"

He felt it — the overwhelming urge to agree. His head ached, the pressure of the voice building.

"A simple price. A memory. One precious moment — that's all I need."

Greaves swallowed hard, his mind racing. His fingers twitched toward his gun, but he knew it would do no good. This wasn’t a person. It was something else. Something older. Something dark.

"What kind of memory?" he asked, against his better judgment.

"Something precious. Perhaps the day your daughter was born? Or the last words your wife said to you before she died?"

His heart lurched painfully at the mention of his wife. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about her in years. The wound still felt fresh, the loss a raw nerve in his soul. He gritted his teeth. "No."

The whisper chuckled, low and mocking.

"It’s a small price, Detective. You want to catch him, don’t you? You want to end this?"

Greaves’ mind wavered. He could feel the memories shifting in his head, the warmth of his wife’s smile, the softness of her voice on the last morning before the accident.

"One memory. Just one... and I will give you the name."

Greaves’ heart pounded in his chest. The image of the missing faces swam before him. Eight people, lost, their families torn apart. He was so close. But the memory of his wife was all he had left. If he lost that…

"Time’s running out, Detective." The whisper turned cold, sharp, pressing in. "Another will disappear tonight. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

His hands shook, indecision clawing at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, her voice echoing in his mind, the last real thread to his old life.

"Choose."

The word echoed in the hollow of his skull.

With a trembling breath, Greaves whispered, "Take it."

The world shifted. He felt a searing pain in his chest, a ripping sensation deep within his mind, and suddenly, the memory was gone. He reached for it, but it was like trying to grab smoke. His wife’s face, her voice, her last day—it was all a blur, something distant, like a half-forgotten dream.

The whisper coiled in his mind, triumphant.

"Good. The name you seek is Marcus Vane."

Greaves’ eyes snapped open. Marcus Vane. His own partner.

Cold realization settled in. He stumbled back, breathless, the weight of the truth crashing down on him. He knew Marcus, had worked with him for years. He never suspected…

The voice slithered back into his thoughts, laughing softly.

"Enjoy the truth, Detective. It will cost you more than you know."

And then, silence.

Greaves stood alone in the empty mill, the name echoing in his hollowed mind. The whisper was gone, but so was the memory of the one person he had loved the most. All for the truth.

And now, the truth felt like a curse.

The Old Phone Booth Shaina Tranquilino October 12, 2024

The phone booth stood in the middle of nowhere, an ancient relic from a forgotten time. Its glass panes were cracked, the once-bright red paint now faded to a dull rust. A lonely road stretched in both directions, endless and desolate. No one came here. There was no reason to. Yet the phone booth remained, untouched by time or vandalism, waiting for something—or someone.

It was late one autumn evening when Xander found himself lost along that very road. His phone had died hours ago, and there hadn’t been another car in sight since he left the small town behind. The cold, bitter wind gnawed at him as he walked, and just when hope seemed to dwindle, he saw the phone booth up ahead.

Relief washed over him. It was bizarre—who kept a phone booth running these days? But he didn’t care. He just needed to call for help. As he approached, something about the booth unsettled him. It didn’t belong here, in the vast emptiness of the fields around it. But desperation overpowered any lingering doubt.

Xander pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside. The air within felt colder than it should, a damp chill clinging to him. The phone hung crookedly from its cradle, an old rotary model that hadn’t been in use for decades. The grime and cobwebs hinted it hadn’t been touched in years. But before he could reach for it, the phone rang.

The sharp, metallic ring echoed in the booth, startling him. Xander froze. His mind raced—who would call a phone like this? There was no one around for miles. Perhaps it was a coincidence, some automated system. But as the phone continued to ring, a strange compulsion overcame him. He reached out, hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

"Hello?" His voice was shaky.

At first, there was silence. Then, faintly, from the other end of the line, he heard it—whispering. It was low, indistinct, like a distant conversation just out of earshot. Xander strained to listen, but the words remained elusive. He should’ve hung up then, but something in those whispers tugged at him, drawing him closer.

“Hello? Who is this?” he repeated, but the whispers only grew louder, surrounding him, filling his ears with their unintelligible murmur. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the tone felt wrong—off, like voices that weren’t meant to be heard. A cold dread began to creep up his spine, but his hand wouldn’t let go of the receiver.

The whispering continued, insistent, crawling into his mind like insects burrowing deep. Xander tried to pull away, but he found himself rooted to the spot, paralyzed by some unseen force. His heart pounded as he realized the whispers weren’t just words—they were inside him now, writhing in his thoughts, unravelling them. The voices were no longer on the line; they were in his head, echoing from the corners of his mind, relentless and invasive.

The wind outside had picked up, rattling the booth, but Xander didn’t notice. The whispers were all he could hear, growing louder, drowning out everything else. They spoke in a language he couldn’t understand, yet somehow he knew what they wanted. They were telling him things—dark, terrible things—about himself, about the world, about everything that waited beyond.

He tried to scream, but his throat tightened, suffocated by their presence. His vision blurred as the world around him seemed to warp, bending and twisting in unnatural ways. The booth felt smaller, closing in on him, the glass distorting like a funhouse mirror. The whispers consumed him, tearing through his thoughts, leaving nothing but a hollow echo where his sanity had once been.

With a final gasp, Xander dropped the receiver. The phone swung limply, the dial tone buzzing faintly beneath the rising wind. He staggered out of the booth, his mind shattered, eyes wide with terror but unseeing. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, mumbling incoherently to himself, the whispers still echoing in the dark recesses of his mind.

Hours later, a passing truck driver found Xander wandering along the road, his clothes soaked from the evening rain. His eyes were glazed, and his lips moved, forming words that made no sense. He was taken to a nearby hospital, but no one could reach him. He spoke of voices, of the whispers that wouldn’t stop, of things that had no name. Days later, he vanished from his hospital room without a trace.

The phone booth remains there, silent and waiting.

Sometimes, on lonely nights, it rings. And if you answer, you’ll hear the whispers too.

But be warned: once they find you, they never let go.