It screams when it doesn’t whisper
My family has an odd history of tragedy—at least, that’s what my grandma would always say.“It comes in waves; it comes when it wants to,” she would ominously say, but we all knew she was superstitious and generally odd. According to my mom, who has a much-strained relationship with her, she had always been eccentric. The only tragedy I vaguely remember myself is the death of my little sister Hollie, or Hol as I would always call her. I was 10 at the time and I don’t recall much. My memory is like an old photograph left out in the rain—distorted, bleeding at the edges, warped in ways I don’t understand. I know I was there when it happened. But when I try to reach back, the details feel… wrong. Shuffled. Like a story, someone else told me, and I just learned to repeat it. The more I try to remember, the more uncertain I become. After the death of Hol, my mom and grandma grew even further apart. Grandma kept insisting something about her death wasn’t right. She would talk about an evil presence. In her worst moments, she would even go as far as throwing accusations against both me and my mom. Having eventually had enough; my mom cut all ties with her. It was the only way we could start grieving properly, she said. For 12 years we continued as a family and did our best to move on together in what had always seemed to me, a haunted house that was now just a little shorter on love, a little colder and desolate. For a while, it seemed we were slowly heading in the right direction. That was until my mom started whispering to herself when she thought no one was around.It started a couple of years ago. Initially, my dad and I thought nothing of it, when we caught her from time to time, she would brush it aside. ‘’It’s nice to talk to a rational person on occasion’ she would chuckle. It honestly didn’t seem like any reason to worry.Then one night I heard her whispering to herself from inside her bedroom. My dad and she hadn’t shared a bedroom for a while at that point.I’m not a person to intrude on other people’s personal space, but I heard her whispering my name. It got my attention. So, there I stood, in the dark upstairs hallway of my parents’ house spying on my mom. I know it might sound weird, but here’s the thing: She had been acting strangely for a while now. Distant. Almost a bit hostile toward me, and I had no idea why. It seemed she might be angry at me for some unknown reason. We were never any good at actually talking to each other. ‘’the less said, the better’ could’ve been the family motto. This felt like an opportunity I had to jump at.I put my ear to the door and listened carefully.She spoke in a low, muffled, and angry whisper. Her voice slithered through the silence, dry and rasping, like dead leaves scraping across pavement. It was extremely hard to hear anything, but here’s the gist of what I got:‘’Julian… (my name) doesn’t… Hol… leave… was… evil… fault…’’ I felt a cold shiver down my spine. As I stood there, my ear pressed against the door, I felt a sneeze coming on at the worst possible time. I tried to kill it but to no avail. Not long after I heard footsteps approaching the door. I jumped backward and retreated down the stairs as quickly as I could.I paused at the bottom of the stairs in the main hallway and looked up. I heard the bedroom door open.Then I saw my mom’s face peeking over the stair railing. The light behind her cast her features in an unnatural shadow, stretching her eyes into dark, bottomless pits. Her mouth was slightly open, just enough to reveal the glint of teeth. For a split second, it didn’t even look like her face. It looked like a mask constantly changing shape. If you’ve ever tried staring at your reflection in the mirror in a darkly lit room, squinting slightly, you’ll know what I mean. My stomach tightened.I was sure she couldn’t see me in the darkness downstairs. But then—she tilted her head, just slightly. As if she could. It seemed like her eyes were staring straight into mine. I remained motionless, afraid to move, afraid she would notice me. Finally, she retreated into the bedroom.I didn’t sleep much that night. My thoughts were all over the place. Why had my mom been whispering angrily to herself about me and Hol? Who was evil? I wanted to confront her but how could I? I would have to admit to spying on her. I had to know more, and seeing no other option, I decided to keep spying on her. The only problem was, I couldn’t hear her properly from outside the bedroom with the door closed. I needed to be in the room.The following nights I would hide in my mom’s bedroom, under her bed.It felt wrong. It truly did, but I had to know what she was whispering to herself about. Confronting her was not an option. On the fourth night, it happened. I was lying tugged, well, trapped really, under the bed when the low angry, and growling whisper began filling the room. I had never heard a whisper so full of rage before. It was a whisper stretched too thin, trembling on the edge of something far worse. The words dripped with quiet, seething fury like they were being torn from deep within her. “They never mention you.”“They all forgot.”‘’I’m the only one who cares. The only one who ever cared.’ The whisper crept into the room and seemed to speak from the walls. I didn’t know until then; how terrifying and angry a person can sound while whispering. I couldn’t believe this sound came from my mom. ‘’There’s something wrong with Julian, there was always something wrong with him. I wish you could tell me how you feel, tell me what you think.’ I felt an intense fear and unease mixed with sadness. Was this what my mom had always thought of me? That something was wrong with me? Why did it seem like the last sentence she spoke had been directed to someone else in the room with her? I tried to keep myself composed, I couldn’t have her discover me now, creeping under the bed. It became nearly impossible for me when a second whisper, which I KNEW wasn’t my mom, suddenly appeared. ‘’Something must be done about Dulian. He must be punished.’’The pitch was all wrong—high and thin, with childish undertones. It wavered between something innocent and something utterly unnatural, twisting and twitching with a jagged, broken quality that sent a shiver down my spine. To my horror, I realized that somewhere in that angry, resentful pitch, were traces of Hol’s voice. At first, I thought it was an echo. A trick of the mind. But then I heard it—the way she used to say my name. Dulian… She never was able to pronounce the ‘J’’ part. But there was no warmth or innocence left in it… Just anger and something else… Hurt perhaps. Or disappointment. ‘’He must be punished.’ Hol’s whisper seemed to come from right beside me now. I covered my mouth and started sobbing. I couldn’t help it. Hearing Hol’s voice again speaking those words. I never really believed in ghosts, demons, or any of the things my grandma seemed to believe in, yet how could I explain this? ‘’I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves, Hol.’’ I was in a state of shock. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. My mom was whispering to my dead sister, and they both seemed to hate me for some reason that completely escaped me. I know I probably wasn’t always the best brother or the best son. Heck, there are a lot of things about me I don’t like, but did I deserve their hatred? Their anger? Maybe I did. Suddenly the whispers stopped. I could hear my mom moving about the room. Had she heard my sobbing?For what seemed like agonizing hours I held my breath until the light was turned off and my mom went to bed. I waited until I was sure she was asleep and crept out from under the bed. As quietly as possible, I opened the door but just as I was about to close it behind me, I heard her. ‘’Julian, is that you?’’ I was caught. I slowly turned around. She was sitting up in the bed, bathed in darkness, I could barely see her expression, yet it seemed to be judging me. ‘’I’m sorry Mom, I…’’Had no words. Nothing to explain why I was suddenly standing there.‘’Is everything ok?’’ Her voice sounded tired and angry. I shifted back and forth on my feet nervously. ‘’Yes, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s nothing, we can talk about it tomorrow.’Brilliant. I had time to come up with an excuse. Hopefully, she hadn’t seen me crawl out from under her bed. ‘’It’s late, Julian, you should get some sleep.’I nodded. ‘’Goodnight.’ I closed the door and instantly felt a panic attack coming on. Like the fabric of my soul was being torn into. The following morning was awkward, to say the least. My mom casually asked why I had been in her bedroom the night before, and all I could muster up was:“I wanted to ask you if I could borrow the car today.”She sighed. I sensed she didn’t believe me.“Sure, honey. Just don’t take too long. I need it by tonight.” I nodded silently. My mom then said, looking up from her book, “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about? You know you can always talk to me, right?”Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a sharpness that felt misplaced. Her gaze lingered a second too long, making my skin crawl. My dad took notice of the tension and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.“No, Mom, really. I just needed to borrow the car.”She held my gaze for an excruciatingly long time before she spoke. “You know, you’ve been acting strange lately.” I almost choked on my coffee. I’VE been acting strange lately?I felt a strong urge to confront her about everything I’d heard. About the whispers. All of it. But then I realized how insane it would have sounded: My dead sister and mom whispering to each other? My dad would take her side, surely. They might even send me away to some institution. Was that her… their goal?I felt like a moth pinned to a board under her stare, squirming under the weight of her unspoken accusations. “I’ve been stressed lately,” I said finally. “I still have trouble finding a job. It wears me out a little.”Her face was unreadable, but it felt like she was smirking behind her neutral gaze. Like she was taking joy in the fact that I was struggling to get my life together.“Sure, I understand, but please don’t feel like a failure. Everyone falls on hard times.”Her voice seemed condescending, spiteful. I got up and left. “I never said I felt like a failure.”She sighed as I left the uncomfortable conversation behind. I retreated down the basement to my bedroom to think it all over. I couldn’t risk spying on her again, but I couldn’t just wait for whatever horrifying plan they had in store for me. Whatever punishment they felt I deserved. Something was very, very wrong, if felt it with every inch of my being. Just then, I thought about my grandma’s warnings. I remembered how my mom had cut her off. Written her off as a superstitious oddball. Considering everything, it now seemed I might do well listening to her for once. I had already gotten permission to borrow the car, so I decided to go see her. Grandma lived on the other side of town in a parcel house. Her front yard was overgrown with weeds. She had gotten too old to tend to it herself and had no one else to do it for her. I felt bad. My mom decided to cut her off, yet the rest of us followed her lead without much question. It had been years since I visited her.When I rang the bell, a sudden rush of nostalgia came over me as I heard the tune playing: “Oh, when the saints go marching in…” I remembered then, despite her oddities, how much I had enjoyed spending time with her before Hol died. She invited me in with a smile on her face. If she was angry with me for not visiting more, it didn’t show.The state of her house was in a similar decrepit condition as her front yard. Boxes, trinkets, old souvenirs, and religious and occult objects flooded the place. The air inside was heavy, tinged with the faint metallic scent of old coins and something sour that I couldn’t place. Shadows seemed to pool in the corners of her living room, too deep for the weak light to penetrate. I suddenly felt watched from the darkness.I sat, not knowing what to say, but it seemed she knew better than me. “You look tired, dear.” I sighed. We exchanged a few trivial words before I mustered up the strength to ask. “You once said this family had a history of tragedy. Like some kind of curse?” She nodded. “Your mom and I never saw eye to eye on that. She wouldn’t hear it. I suppose she thought I was a superstitious old hag.”She chuckled, but her eyes betrayed her. “Maybe I am. But we are who we are.” I looked around at the strange symbols and objects that hung on her walls.“Can you tell me about it?”Her eyes lit up as if she’d been waiting for someone to ask her, yet she seemed worried too.“Julian, dear, is something wrong?” I paused. “I think I’m cursed. I… Haven’t been feeling alright lately. Something is wrong.”She looked at me, concerned, fearful.“‘It’s found you, hasn’t it?’ she whispered, almost as if the words themselves could summon something from the shadows.” I swear it felt like the whispers were now inside my head, echoing and bouncing off the walls of my skull.“You’re not getting away. You’re not getting away. She can’t help you.”They grew louder, overlapping and swirling together until they became a cacophony of taunts. Words I couldn’t fully grasp burrowed into my mind like claws. I did my best to ignore it. “What is it?” Grandma sighed.“Something as old as time, I suppose. It causes trouble and tragedy wherever it goes, breaking you down slowly. It wants to be you. Wants you to think it’s you.” I felt uneasy in my entire body. “I don’t understand. That makes no sense.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Everyone has to find out for themselves before it’s too late. It took your uncle. Before that, it took your grandfather. Even before that. Accidents, deaths, tragedy.”I felt more confused than ever. “Didn’t my uncle take his own life? I—” Grandma interrupted. “It made him do it. It whispered in his ears. That’s what it does, you know. It whispers when it doesn’t scream. Your uncle didn’t just take his own life,’ Grandma said, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘He was… hollowed out. Like something had scooped out his will and left him an empty shell.’” I had come looking for answers, but I was left more confused than ever. “Why does it use my sister’s voice? I don’t understand.” She looked at me with the weary weight of a lifetime’s knowledge. “Only you know the answer to that. I can’t help you fight it. I can’t take you on this journey. I can only show you the door. It knows you, and it will use that against you. It knows your fears. Your insecurities. It will take everything you love and turn it into something ugly. Once you’re weak enough, it will come for you, come to finish you off.” She got up and started going through some old stuff. She found what looked like a wooden trinket—a circle with strange markings on it. She handed me the carved circle. ‘Wear this,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘It will help. But remember—this can’t save you. Only you can do that.’ I was floored. “How do you fight something like that?” She took my hand. “You know. Look into yourself, and you’ll know.” Her touch brought me back in time. Hol was there. We were playing hide and seek in Grandma’s house. It was just before Christmas, and the smell of cinnamon was everywhere. I had searched for what felt like hours.Suddenly, I heard a wailing. I followed the sound until I found her in the playhouse out in Grandma’s backyard. She had accidentally locked herself inside.“You didn’t find me. I thought you’d left me. I thought…” And just like that, I was back in the room with Grandma. I felt tears welling up. “I can’t do this alone. Ever since Hol died, things have… Mom hates me. She whispers terrible things about me. Dad doesn’t even seem to care enough to hate me.” Grandma shook her head. “You can, and you will. You’re not alone, but this one thing—this one thing—you must do alone. You must look into yourself as you confront it. And you must confront it. There is no escape. There is no running away. It will come for you, again and again, until it comes one last time.’’ I was on the verge of giving up. “I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know where to begin.” She gently grabbed my shoulder. “You’ve forgotten so much, haven’t you? I can’t help you see it, but maybe I can show you the way. Look in your parents’ attic. There’s a yellow, faded box up there. Find it. Maybe it will help you remember. Help you see what you need to see.” I felt defeated. Hopeless, yet still determined to keep fighting. As I got up, I stopped for a moment. “Grandma? What really happened between you and Mom? Why don’t you talk?” She looked at me. Her eyes were old and tired.“We both said things we shouldn’t have said. Your mom and I… we’re very different, dear. People handle tragedy differently.” I nodded and headed for the door.“Julian, dear?” I stopped. “Remember what I said.” When I arrived back at my parents’ house, the sun was still high. It was afternoon, and I knew they wouldn’t be home for at least a couple of hours. I had time. My grandma had wanted me to find something in the attic. She’d been cryptic, as always, but the weight of her words stayed with me: “Maybe it will help you remember. Help you see what you need to see.’’I found the wooden ladder tucked neatly in the closet, just where it had always been. The hatch to the attic groaned as I pulled it down, the sound carrying through the empty house. As I climbed, each step felt heavier than the last. I tried to brace myself for what I might find. The attic was unchanged. Standing exactly as it had done when Hol and I used to play hide and seek here—dusty, old, and shrouded in an eerie stillness that seemed to press against my chest. The wooden beams overhead cast long shadows in the dim light filtering through the lone window. The floorboards creaked beneath my weight, sounding fragile, as if they might give way at any moment. The air was thick with rot and dust, a stale, suffocating aroma that crawled into my throat and refused to leave. “Look for a yellow faded box,” Grandma had said. I scanned the cluttered space and spotted a pile of boxes beneath a tattered blanket. The fabric was rough and grimy, like it had been abandoned to time. My hands brushed over the rough texture as I peeled it back, and there it was—a large, faded yellow box. Scribbled on the side were the names “Julian and Hollie.” My stomach sank. With trembling hands, I lifted the lid. The stale scent of old cardboard hit me immediately, and for a moment, I hesitated, half-expecting something… terrible to leap out at me. But all that greeted me were toys, faded drawings, and an old photo album. My chest loosened in relief, but the unease lingered.I sifted through the contents, each item dragging me back through memories and feelings I thought I had buried long ago. There was Leo, Hol’s favorite stuffed white tiger. She’d adored him, carrying him everywhere, playing with him for hours. I’d been jealous and because of me, Leo now wore an eye patch that my mom had lovingly sewn. His white fur was matted and gray with age, the little patch still crooked. Holding it now, I felt the sting like a knife in my side. It wasn’t just a toy. It had been her joy, and I’d scarred it.Was I like that? Did I have trouble controlling my emotions? Did I take it out on Hol?“I was a kid,” I whispered aloud, trying to rationalize it. But the thought turned sour. Something shifted in the air, a barely perceptible sound—whispers carried by the attic’s stale breath. ‘’No excuse.’’ The words coiled around me, soft at first, then louder, crashing in a rising crescendo. ‘’No excuse!’’ I shook my head, desperate to quiet them. I hummed a tune I barely remembered, a childhood melody that brought me a sliver of comfort. Beneath the toys were drawings—mine, mostly. Memories of afternoons spent with crayons and markers came flooding back. Hadn’t I also drawn things for Hol? I had, I remembered. “Draw me tigers, rainbows, and sunflowers,” she’d say with wide eyes. And I’d oblige.“For Hol,” the words on the drawings said. The ones with tigers, rainbows, and sunflowers. Crudely drawn tigers played under rainbows; wobbly sunflowers stretched tall under bright blue skies.But not all the drawings were like that. The others—the ones I’d made just for me—were different.I flipped through them, the familiar unease returning. My mom’s voice echoed in my mind: “So many of your drawings have ghosts in them.” She wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t noticed it as a child, but now, staring at the crude figures, I couldn’t deny it. One drawing caught my eye—a family portrait. Stick figures, all of us together. Except I’d drawn myself twice. One version of me stood with the others, smiling. The second… it was scrawled in red, thick and angry, overlapping lines that slashed across the page like open wounds.The whispers came again, closer this time. ‘’Always broken. Always evil.’’I dropped the drawing, my hands trembling. What had Grandma wanted me to see? What had she hoped I’d remember?The ghosts in the drawings weren’t just stick figures—they were hollow-eyed, monstrous things. Their smiles stretched too wide, jagged mouths curling unnaturally across their faces.Why had I drawn these things?I flipped to another drawing—a grotesque scene of a monster killing a man. Below it, in a child’s scrawl, I had written: “It’s fun to murder.” I shook my head, trying to dismiss it. Just a kid with a vivid imagination. It didn’t mean anything, right? That old horror movie, the one that had given me nightmares, had probably inspired me, the one with the murderous doll—Child’s Play, I think it was called.But the whispers disagreed. ‘’You lie to yourself’ they hissed. Their voices wrapped around me, overlapping in a maddening chorus that rose from every shadow in the attic. ‘’You were always broken. Dark and twisted. Poor Hol. She suffered because of you.’’ “NO!” I screamed, clamping my hands over my ears. I started humming the tune Hol and I used to sing together, trying to drown out the voices. But it didn’t help. They weren’t coming from the attic—they were inside my head. I stood up and raised my voice to try and push them away. ‘’I’m a good person! I would never hurt my sister!’The whispers hissed at me angrily, words I could hardly deny.‘’Evil people don’t know they are evil!’’ I dropped to my knees, lost and defeated. This couldn’t be what Grandma wanted me to see. Did she set me up? Was she in on it all?Anger gnawed at my soul like rats chewing through rotting wood.“Keep going,” a voice commanded, louder and sharper than the rest. It cut through the noise like a knife.I obeyed. I opened the photo album, flipping through the pages of old, faded Polaroids bleached by time. There we were—Hol and me, side by side in nearly every photo. I hadn’t looked at these in years. As if seeing her face would bring back something I’d rather leave behind. She smiled at me now, from the old, faded Polaroid. One of the last taken of her and me before she died. Forever 8 years old. Sitting next to me in our parents’ old storage space, where we kept all the Christmas decorations. Where we used to play.Her expression haunted me. Something about the way she sat, slightly too far away from me, as if something had spooked her. The whispers grew louder, their words like daggers: “Yes, yes, yes! She was scared of you! Scared of you!”“NO!” I yelled, my voice shaking as I almost slammed the album shut.But then my eyes caught another polaroid.It was of me and Hol in our parents’ garden, standing beneath two towering sunflowers. Our smiling faces beamed with innocent, unrestrained joy. “Draw me tall sunflowers,” her small voice echoed in my head, faint and almost drowned by the whispers.My mom once told me that, to a child, the world feels vast, mysterious, and full of adventure. Everything is new—everything begs to be explored. A single leaf can hold an entire universe.Most of us forget what that is like. But I remember now. In our garden, Hol and I saw a jungle—our jungle. Flowers, weeds, and trees became enchanted kingdoms. We were explorers, greeting every creature like an old friend, gazing up at the sunflowers that seemed to stretch into the bright blue sky. I remember the first time Hol saw a rainbow. We were lying on the grass, rain lightly falling around us. We didn’t have a care in the world, just enjoying the calmness of the moment. Her eyes lit up with wonder as she tugged on my shirt. “What is that pretty thing in the sky?” she asked and pointed.“It’s a rainbow, Hol,” I told her. She dragged me around the rest of the day trying to chase it down. It seemed to me that we almost caught it. On lazy summer days, we would play this game, pretending one of us was a big hungry tiger chasing the other through the garden. I remember the rush of weaving through the bushes, leaves lightly brushing against my skin, branches snapping back as I tore ahead. My heart pounded—not with fear, but with the wild thrill of the chase. Behind me, Hol was gaining, her playful growls blending with the rustling of the wind. She was the tiger, fierce and relentless. I ran until my lungs burned, I ran until her tiny hands finally caught my shirt, and we tumbled into the grass, breathless and laughing, the world around us nothing but sunlight, tangled limbs, and the echo of our joy. After she died, the garden changed. It looked the same but felt different, empty of something essential, occupied by something monstrous. What once was a jungle of wonder, a kaleidoscope of greens, yellows, reds, and purple bursting with life, now seemed to be a fading, lifeless version of its former self. The leaves seemed dull, their edges curling inward like clawed hands. The sunflowers loomed less like gentle giants and more like towering sentinels, guarding something sinister and forgotten. As I sat in the dim attic, the old Polaroid trembling in my hands, the dust-heavy air felt thick with memories. My fingers traced the faded edges, and suddenly, I was back in the garden—Back inside a memory of the last time I ever ran through our garden Our jungle.I was fourteen, chasing a feeling. Desperate to recapture something lost, I sprinted through the overgrown weeds and tangled bushes, my breath hitching, my pulse hammering like it used to. I imagined Hol behind me, her laughter ringing through the leaves, her playful growls close at my heels. For a fleeting moment, the magic sparked to life again. Then I heard it—branches crackling behind me, bushes being trampled through. The laughter coupled with growling. Her laughter. Her growling. Only it wasn’t. It sounded wrong, like a deliberately bad imitation—a wailing, painful laughter devoid of joy or innocence. An angry, guttural growl. I stopped and glanced over my shoulder, and that’s when I saw her. Pale, ghostly, slightly obscured through the weeds and bushes. Her eyes—those dead, accusing eyes—stared straight at me. Eyes that had closed forever and been buried years ago. I froze, paralyzed by fear, as she slowly crept out from the shadow of the bushes. She crawled on all fours like she used to, pretending to be a tiger. Only this time, her movements were predatory—deliberate, menacing. Her limbs, broken and twisted as they had been the day she died, jerked unnaturally with every step, like a marionette controlled by unseen strings. The growling deepened, layered with something that didn’t belong to her small frame. Her face, once so full of life, was now pale and contorted with hatred. The light that had danced in her eyes during our childhood adventures was gone, replaced by an empty, seething darkness.Her lips twisted into a wicked, unnatural smile that stretched far too wide, splitting her pale face like a gash. Jagged, dirty teeth—too many to count—filled a mouth that seemed to grow larger the longer I stared. Her bright blue eyes turned to black pits, glinting with an otherworldly hate that seemed to pierce my very soul. “Don’t you want to play anymore?” Her voice was guttural, a hideous growl that rumbled from deep inside her throat. I turned and ran. I ran like I’d never done before. My chest burned, my heart pounded, but I didn’t dare stop. There would be no giggling or collapsing in fits of laughter this time. If she caught me, I knew it wouldn’t end with joy. Behind me, I heard her—half-wailing, half-growling—a rising crescendo of fury. Her voice rang out, a guttural howl that sent shivers down my spine.“It’s your fault! It’s all your fault! And now you leave me here alone!” Her words tore through the air, sharp and ragged, like a thousand nails scraping against bone. The sound vibrated in my skull, drilling into my thoughts. Branches whipped at my face, cutting my skin as I ran. The air around me felt thick and heavy, carrying the acrid scent of decay. My lungs burned as I gasped for breath, pushing my legs harder than I ever thought possible. The crackling of branches behind me grew louder. Her howling was closer now, and I was certain she’d catch me. I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat, raw and desperate. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a voice calling out—a lifeline.I burst out of the bushes and into the open. Strong arms wrapped around me. I thrashed wildly, convinced she’d caught me. It wasn’t until I felt the familiar warmth of my mom’s embrace that I realized I was safe. I buried my face in her chest, sobbing uncontrollably. She held me tightly, rubbing my back in silent comfort. “What happened?” she asked softly, but I couldn’t possibly begin to explain. No more words were said about it. We were never good at talking in my family.As I glanced back, tears blurring my vision, I saw her. Half-hidden in the bushes, her pale, ghoulish face stared at me with those empty, hateful eyes. That smile—God, that smile—was still there, carved into her face like a cruel scar. Had she always been there? Watching me through the years, through my lonely, sibling-less childhood? Always one step behind, waiting for the right moment to strike?No. This wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. This was something else. Something monstrous. This was the “it” Grandma had warned me about. How could I fight something when I didn’t even know what it was? What it wanted?I know I wasn’t the best brother. I know I’ve screwed up—then and now. I could never be like her. Perfect Hollie. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. Maybe… maybe I was even to blame for what happened to her. Is that what it wanted me to admit? Would that bring me peace?I couldn’t tell where the whispers ended, and my own thoughts began. They echoed in my mind, relentless and accusing. I took the Polaroid of Hol, me, and the sunflowers. I took the drawings I’d made for her, too. I held onto the memories—of running through the bushes, of laughter, of childhood wonder.I didn’t know what was coming, but I needed those memories. I needed them close.The next day after my trip to the attic, I paced around my bedroom in the basement, trying to figure out how to proceed. I could hear the whispers again, coiling around my thoughts, squeezing the clarity out of my mind. Had they always been there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be heard? Each word felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone who knew something I didn’t.“Something is wrong with you,” they hissed.Maybe they were right. Something was out to get me; I knew that much.And it was conspiring with my mom. Turning her against me.My thoughts were interrupted, disturbed by her presence.“Julian? Did you forget to put gas in the car?”I jumped up in surprise. “I… I guess I did. Mom, could you knock before you barge in?”She looked at me with a condescending expression. “You wouldn’t have this problem if you found your own place, you know.” Her voice was sharp and desperate as if worn down by years of frustration—but there was something else now. A strange undertone, something that didn’t belong to her.I looked at her uneasily.“I’m trying… things aren’t…”She sighed and changed the subject. “Julian, did you go to the attic?”I froze. I was about to lie but realized she wouldn’t be asking this question if she didn’t already know the answer. “Yes, I was just going through some old stuff and…”She interrupted me. “You and Hollie’s old stuff. I know… You should put things back where they belong if you’re going to go digging through it all, and please put the ladder back in the closet next time.”My entire body tensed up. Her demeanor seemed almost threatening, something behind her eyes glaring at me menacingly.“I’m sorry, I guess I forgot.”She sighed again, turned to leave, but then stopped as if contemplating something. She turned to face me again. “Why were you going through that stuff anyway, Julian? We really need to talk about your behavior lately.”The whispers crept around my childhood bedroom, closing in, and surrounding me.“She knows what you are. She knows what you are. Broken. Twisted. Evil. Won’t be long now. Won’t be long.”I took a step back. “I just… wanted to look at it. Something wrong with that? There’s nothing to talk about.”She looked at me suspiciously for an uncomfortably long time.“This can’t go on,” she finally said and left.That same night, as I went upstairs to get a drink from the kitchen, I heard my parents talking inside the living room. I stayed as quiet as I could, trying to listen in. Eventually, as I knew it would, their conversation landed on me. “He’s always been like this,” I heard my dad say.My mom’s voice was muffled, but I got the gist of her response: “We need to deal with him. We can’t ignore this. Something is wrong with him. I’m afraid of what he might do if we don’t react soon.”My veins turned to ice as I heard my dad agreeing with her. The whispers crept around me again, mocking me with their evil taunts:“No help from daddy. No help at all.”This thing had turned what was left of my family against me now. I felt more alone than ever before as I went downstairs that night. After shifting and turning restlessly in my bed for hours I fell into an uneasy sleep.When I woke the next morning, still sleepy and droopy-eyed, I saw something that terrified me beyond comprehension. My mom was watching me through the crack of slightly open door into my bedroom. I didn’t hear her footsteps. She just appeared. Her face was half-shadowed in the doorframe. Her eyes—those eyes—so far removed from the softness I once knew. They burned with something darker. Something old and sinister.Her mouth stretched into a half-smile, a twisted smile that didn’t reach her eyes.I buried my face in the pillow. I couldn’t take this much longer. How much more was this thing going to torture me before it finally finished me off? I stayed away from my parents the entire day. I wandered the woods behind our house, trying to muster up whatever strength was left in me. I went through everything. The whispers, my mom’s strange and hostile behavior, Hol’s apparition, grandma’s warnings, memories of joyful childhood innocence broken into pieces. The confusion rose within me like a storm of muddled feelings, thoughts, and memories all blending together. I knew something was drawing closer, I knew it wouldn’t be long.The beginning of the end happened later that night. I heard my mom’s voice calling from her bedroom.“Julian, I need you here. Now.” She sounded slightly commanding. I felt almost hypnotized, and my legs started walking toward the bedroom door, even though a voice in the back of my mind told me not to go.Was this really her? How could I be sure anymore?I opened the door. Darkness greeted me. I shuddered and instantly reached for the light switch. The room was empty. Unease and dread filled me as I closed the door.I got halfway down the stairs when I heard her calling out again.“Julian! Get in here! You and I need to talk!” The voice now sounded much sterner than it had before, like a mom scolding a young child. Yet I wasn’t a child anymore, and that voice surely couldn’t belong to my mom.I continued down the stairs when the voice yelled out so loud, it rattled the very bones of the house.“JULIAN!! DON’T THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY, YOUNG MAN!! YOU ARE IN BIG TROUBLE!”I darted down the stairs as fast as I could. I searched for my mom around the empty, haunted rooms of my childhood home. I felt an intense need for her at that moment. My real mom, not whatever, had screamed at me from the bedroom or whispered about me in the middle of the night.She was nowhere to be found. Then it dawned on me. I hadn’t checked the small storage room in the back of the bedroom. I dreaded thinking of why she would be sitting there, yelling for me to join her. She wasn’t well. This wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. That thing had possessed her.Then I remembered my grandma’s words.“You have to confront it. There is no escape.’’ I went upstairs and into my mom’s bedroom once again. There’s no escape. I couldn’t let it tear me apart… tear my family apart without at least putting up a fight.I looked at the small door to the storage room. Hol and I had spent so much time in there. Our favorite hiding spot. We’d decorate the place with the Christmas ornaments my mom stored there. “Christmas in July!” We’d laugh and giggle until our stomachs hurt. My mom wasn’t a fan of the mess we’d sometimes make, but we loved it. The door now seemed like a gateway into my childhood. Beckoning me home. I didn’t expect to find any cheerful laughter or Christmas decorations adorning the place, but I had to confront it.I patted my pocket. The Polaroid and the crumbled old drawings were still in there. With a heavy sigh, I slowly opened the door, ready to put an end to this once and for all. Ready to find the truth. Whatever it was. The light in the storage space hasn’t worked properly for some time now. Only the middle section was lit up by a weak bulb that didn’t provide much light. It left the far end in total darkness.I gathered myself and called out. “I don’t know what you are. Maybe some kind of demon… But I…”A low, hissing voice slithered out from the darkness, a twisted mix of my mom’s cold tone, Hol’s childish plea, and something darker beneath. The words oozed like poison, each syllable warped, unnatural.“A demon, Julian? Such little imagination! When I’m done with you, you’ll wish I was a demon.”The voice fractured, cracking like glass, but I heard them all—Mom’s reprimand, Hol’s laugh, Dad’s distant hum, his indifference—blending into one monstrous entity. I felt something primal rise within me. Despite my fear, another feeling now took over. Anger. Anger because I had no idea what I had ever done to deserve this. I called out again. “I’m done running from you whatever you are!” A chill went through every fiber of my being. The face emerging from the crawlspace, dimly lit, was that grotesque, horrifying insult to everything I remembered about Hol. Her eyes had been blue, but not this blue. Not this unnaturally bright, icy blue, so bright they were almost white. Not these eyes, so full of all-consuming hatred, malice and pain. Her skin was pale, her lips red. But not this pale, not this red. Like blood in the snow. Her mouth looked like it had been placed upside down, distended, and warped into a silent scream. Then came that malignant smile. A mocking imitation of the small and crooked smile I remembered.“How do I look? Not too bad, right?” the voice hissed and growled. “I guess I could’ve looked better if I wasn’t dead.” A horrible cackling laughter filled the small storage space. It took me all the strength in the world not to run away instantly. “You are not my sister.” My voice was shaking with uncertainty. She slowly approached, sat down, and began rummaging through the Christmas decorations.“You remember when we used to decorate this place, don’t you? Remember when you stepped on a glass ornament? It shattered, and you cried. I was there to comfort you, wasn’t I?”‘’How could I know these things if I wasn’t your sister? Where were you, Julian? When I cried out in pain?’I shook my head. “I was there… Hol. I…” My grandma’s words echoed in my head. “It knows you. It will turn everything you love into something ugly.”I forced myself to face her.“No. You liar! I remember. In the garden. I remember how we used to play and laugh. I remember how close we were.”She laughed.“Do you really!?”She threw a glass ornament at me and hissed. It shattered on the wall behind me.“Remember when I hid in Grandma’s house and you left me all alone?” She cried out. My entire body shook.“No, that’s… It’s not what happened. You accidentally locked yourself in the playhouse… You… I remember…”She slowly crawled towards me, her broken limbs making sick crackling noises as she slithered closer.“LIES!!” Tears of blood streamed down her pale face.“And what about the time you hurt Leo? I loved that toy, Julian! You couldn’t take that, could you!?”I started scooting away from her.“I… apologized, didn’t I? I…” She moved in for the kill. “You couldn’t take that mom, and dad loved me more than they EVER loved you! They were afraid of you too! Did you know that?!” Her broken limbs continued cracking as she moved closer. Her monstrously pale face inched ever closer to mine. Bloody tears dripped down on the carpet below.“You pushed me when we played in the forest behind our house. Pushed me down that steep hill. I lay there for so long and you just stood and watched me!’’She emitted a bone-piercing shriek, half a cry, half an angry outburst.“IT HURT!! JULIAN! IT HURT SO BADLY!!!” She was close enough for me to feel the coldness radiating from her dead frame.The words left my lips in uncertain, doubting sobs. “No, Hol, I couldn’t have… that’s… that’s not me… It was an accident… That can’t be who I am!” Her angry cries became louder. I was about to admit how much I had failed her. I was ready to apologize—to her, to it, to Mom, Dad, and anyone who would listen. Ready for her to pass the final judgment and tear me apart. I just wanted it all to be over. Just when I felt I couldn’t take it any longer, something in my pocket started burning. I took out the Polaroid. It trembled in my hands as I clutched it like a lifeline. It was all I had left of her—the real her. Not the pale, twisted thing that haunted me now, but the little girl who’d seen magic in every corner of the world. My fellow explorer. My Hol. I pressed the photo to my chest as if I could anchor myself to those moments, to her laughter, to who we used to be. Hol and I, in the garden, smiles on our faces, standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the tall sunflowers, chasing rainbows, running wild like tigers. It seemed to take notice, slowing its approach. I took out the crumbled drawings I had made for her too. I held all of it in front of me as a protective shield, screaming at the top of my lungs.“I LOVED MY SISTER! SHE LOVED ME!!! YOU ARE NOT HER!!”I kept repeating those words again and again. Each time, more self-assured, less doubtful.It retreated slowly toward the darkness at the back of the storage space. Its loud cries slowed down into hurt whimpers, no longer as monstrous, no longer as threatening, now much more like a pitiful wailing. Amidst the chaos I heard a distant familiar voice call out, moving closer. Zeroing in on me as the monstrous apparition continued its retreat. The door to the storage space opened. I heard my mom yell out.“Julian?! What’s happening here!?” I just sat there, unable to move. Unable to do much of anything but cry my eyes out. What must she think of me now? I thought. Sitting alone in a dark room, screaming and crying out into the void.But then I felt her touch. Her embrace. A closeness I hadn’t felt from her for what seemed like ages.“Julian, please, you have to talk to me. This can’t go on. Something is hurting you.” Her voice now seemed different. No malice, no blame, no accusations. Just concern and tenderness.“We don’t talk much in this family.” The words left my lips like a shaky whimper.She gently took my face in her hands and looked at me. “Sweetheart, YOU don’t talk. I tried many times. Both your dad and I could sense there were things you wanted to say, but it seemed like the words always escaped you, like you just had no way of telling us how you felt. We’d get into arguments about the way you were acting out, but it would always go nowhere. Don’t you remember?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Then time passed, and… God forgive me, I guess we gave up. We never should have, but we did. We accepted that you didn’t want to or didn’t know how to talk about the things you were going through. You withdrew. It seemed to me you had eventually moved on, although I guess, in my heart, I knew better. I wish you had. But you got accustomed to the burden you were carrying silently, didn’t you? Until it became too much, and it all just came crashing down on you.”I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “But you whispered things about me… you… It was my fault. What happened to Hol, I heard your whispers…” She shook her head and wrapped her arms around me tighter.“Sometimes, we hear and see the things we think we deserve. It’s true, I sometimes whisper to myself. That is my way of coping, but I would never blame you. How could I? It wasn’t your fault; you were just a child. It was an accident. You two were playing around, and she fell… I should’ve sensed it… The guilt you were carrying around. I should’ve done more to get you to open up.’’The softness of her voice seeped through the slowly appearing cracks in the wall that had surrounded me. ‘’Jules… angel… I’m so, so sorry.” I held her tightly. I had no more fight left in me, no more will to resist what I had been keeping inside for so long. I tried to put into words what I never had been able to. “There are so many voices… So many whispers… I’m… I don’t know what to believe anymore.”She rubbed my back slowly, tenderly. “When there are too many voices, all of them surrounding you, wanting your attention… listen to the ones who speak with kindness.”Her soothing voice seemed to echo through the corners of the dark storage space, driving away the last remaining whispers. We sat there for a while… In blissful silence, among the neatly packed up and dusty Christmas decorations, the old-time-weathered remains of my childhood sanctuary. As I looked over my mom’s shoulder, trying to grasp everything that had happened, Hol’s pale and horrifying apparition was gone. In its place, I saw my 10-year-old self, staring back at me. So small, so fragile, so hurt, slowly withering away, leaving behind only a fading memory of tigers, rainbows, and sunflowers. Credit: Simon B. Elsvor Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.