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Shoaib Khalid
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2122127Released 1y ago100% FreeIt was a quiet night when Ben heard the first whisper. He sat at his desk, staring out of the window at the vast, dark woods that surrounded his old family house. The moonlight spilled through the glass, casting shadows across the room. Outside, the trees swayed gently, but what caught Benâs ears was not the rustling leaves but a faint murmur that seemed to drift from the attic. âJust the wind,â he told himself as he pulled his fingers away from the keyboard and rubbed his eyes. He had moved into the house two weeks ago after his grandmother passed away. She had left it to him, and while he was grateful, he was starting to wish he hadnât taken on the responsibility. The creaks and groans of the aged structure frequently interrupted his quiet moments, and tonight was no exception. As the whispering continued, his curiosity got the better of him. It was a soft, beckoning sound that tugged at the strings of his mind. âWhoâs up there?â he called out, trying to mask the tremble in his voice. He received no answer; only more whispers fluttered back to him, layered and almost melodic. He took a deep breath and decided it was time to investigate. Climbing the narrow staircase, Ben felt a chill creep over him as he neared the attic door. The whispers grew clearer, weaving words he could not quite grasp. He paused, heart pounding, and reached for the old brass handle. It felt cold and heavy in his hand. He pushed the door open, and it creaked ominously as he stepped inside. Dust hung in the air, catching the moonlight and making the room glimmer eerily. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, and cobwebs clung to the corners like gathered memories. It was the very essence of neglect. As he stepped further in, the whispers swirled around him, stronger now. âHelp us⊠find usâŠâ They were not just words; they felt like a plea. Benâs heart raced. He glanced around, hoping to find the source. His eyes fell on one box that looked more worn than the others. The name âMomâ was scribbled in faded ink across the front. With shaky hands, he opened it. Inside, he discovered a collection of old dolls, each one more sinister than the last. Their glassy eyes seemed to follow him, and he remembered how his mother had loved to collect them. A sudden wave of grief hit him, and he cradled one of the dollsâa little girl with dusty blonde curls. âWhy are you whispering?â he asked, though he knew dolls couldnât answer. âWhat do you need?â The whispers intensified, swirling into a cacophony that made it hard to think. âFind us⊠release usâŠâ He dropped the doll, startled, and it fell with a thud that echoed in the cold attic. Stumbling backwards, Ben felt a presence, a shadow that enveloped him. He turned, ready to flee, when he heard a low, raspy voice directly in his ear. âHelp usâŠâ âWhy? Who are you?â he gasped, but there was no response, just an intense silence that prickled his skin. Perhaps it was his imagination, or perhaps it was something else. But the air grew heavy with a palpable desperation, and he could feel the chill seep deeper into his bones. Avoiding the dolls, he made his way back to the door, but it suddenly slammed shut, blocking his escape. Panic surged through him as he pulled on the doorknob, but it wouldnât budge. âLet me out!â he shouted, and the whispers began again, louder and more frantic, a symphony of sorrow that filled him with dread. âHelp us⊠you must help usâŠâ An image flashed in his mindâhimself as a child, alone in this attic, playing with his cousins. He remembered their laughter, the games they played, but there was something he always sensed as a childâsomething dark lingering in the corners. Suddenly, memories triggered something within the room. His grandmotherâs voice echoed in his thoughts: âNever go into the attic alone. The whispers are the souls trapped there.â Ben felt sick as pieces clicked into place. His grandmother had seen the dollsâ influence. They werenât just toys; they were vessels for the lost. âWhoâs trapped?â he breathed, looking around as shadows flickered. âI donât understand!â Despair overwhelmed him; the whispers turned into wails that vibrated in his bones. He could almost see faces dimly outlined in the shadows around himâfaces of children, their eyes blank yet pleading. âPlease⊠we want to playâŠâ Ben squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out their cries, but it was no use. âIâll help you!â he shouted desperately, âJust let me go!â The attic shuddered around him as if his declaration had awakened something ancient and powerful. With newfound determination, Ben fumbled through the boxes, searching desperately for anything that might help the trapped spirits. Suddenly, he spotted an old photo album buried beneath a pile of dust-covered trinkets. He grasped it and opened it wide, revealing smiling faces of children long forgotten. Each photograph sparked a memory, stories of laughter and life captured within those pages. âThis is you, isnât it?â he murmured, feeling a connection to the past. âYou want to be remembered.â He read their names aloud as the whispers softened, blending with his voice, âEmily⊠Jasper⊠LucyâŠâ With each name, a gust of wind swirled through the attic, lifting layers of dust into the air. The shadows brightened for an instant before becoming dreary once again. âYou want to be seen, to be remembered,â he realized. âWhat do I do? How can I help?â he pleaded with their fading forms. âYouâre trapped here. You need to let go.â The air began to crackle with emotion as the spirits surrounded him, their faces becoming clearer. âRelease⊠usâŠâ they wailed. Understanding swept over Ben. âI need to tell your stories. Iâll remember you, I promise!â As he spoke, the temperature dropped sharply. He could feel the room trembling around him, and the whispers ceased, replaced by a profound silence. Then, one by one, the spirits emerged from the shadows, drifting toward him. âThank youâŠâ they whispered as they passed through him like a gentle breeze. It was a breathtaking momentâhis heart soared, and he felt lighter than air. They were free. But as the last whisper faded, the attic fell silent, leaving Ben alone in the dark once more. The door creaked open, as if inviting him out. He stumbled down the stairs, overwhelmed by the sensation of liberation but also loss. He had saved them, but he felt something still linger in the roomâthe weight of their stories remained, begging to be told. Days turned into nights, and Ben found himself researching every name heâd seen in the album. Every story led him deeper into a world of sorrow and joy. He poured the tales into a book, decorating it with the very same photos he had found in the attic. Yet, even as he shared these stories, Ben could still hear soft whispers floating through the house, especially if he lingered too long at night. It was as if the attic remained hauntedânot by the spirits, but by the memories he had promised to cherish. One night, while he was drafting his next chapter, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A shadow, flitting across the wall, a childâs laughter echoing in the stillness. Heart racing, he turned to look, only to find his living room was empty. Ben took a deep breath, unsure whether to feel comforted or frightened. Had he truly freed them, or had they simply come back to remind him they were always there? With each passing day, he grappled with the realization that perhaps he hadnât fully understood the connection between them. âAre you still with me?â he asked aloud, feeling an odd sense of companionship wash over him. The whispers returned, soft and soothing, almost like a lullaby. As he closed his eyes, he listened to their voices in the gentle hum of the wind, wondering if they would ever leave him completely. Maybe he never wanted them to. The night remained endlessly quiet, but Ben felt a different kind of presenceâa promise of stories yet to be told. But would he dare to speak of them? What if the whispers had only just begun?
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