Chapter 13
The Whispering Walls
The house itself seems to whisper Selly's name. Shadows lengthen and twist into menacing shapes. The line between reality and Selly's influence blurs.
The walls of their home, once a comforting canvas of family life, now seemed to breathe with a life of their own. Sally felt it first, a prickling sensation on her skin that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was as if the very air was thick with unspoken words, and those words, she knew with a chilling certainty, belonged to Selly. Emily, too, seemed to sense it. She no longer played with her dolls, her once bright eyes now fixed on the corners of rooms, her small body rigid as if listening to a secret broadcast.
"Mommy," Emily whispered one afternoon, her voice barely a breath against the oppressive silence. She was standing by the living room window, her nose almost touching the cool glass. "Selly says the house is sad."
Sally’s heart gave a lurch. "The house isn't sad, sweetie. It's just quiet right now." She tried to keep her voice light, but a tremor ran through it. The shadows in the room, usually benign pools of shade, seemed to writhe. They stretched and elongated, twisting into shapes that vaguely resembled long, grasping fingers. The familiar pattern on the wallpaper, a cheerful scattering of sunflowers, appeared to warp, the petals curling inwards like grimacing mouths.
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