Therapy Bits

This is a new prompt for me to participate in. Here goes, here is what I came up with.

The Prompt: A man wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of whispers. At first, he thinks it’s the radio, but when he checks, it’s turned off. The whispers grow louder, until he realizes they’re coming from inside the walls. One voice cuts through the rest – and it knows his name.

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Today’s Writing Practice – Mark Fraidenburg | Author

The first time Henry heard it, he thought it was just the static of a forgotten radio. A low murmur, indistinct words, drifting through the dark like the echo of a dream. He rolled over, pulled the blanket tighter, and tried to will himself back to sleep.

But the whispers didn’t stop.

They slipped under the doorframe, threaded through the floorboards, tickled the edges of his hearing. At first, he tried to rationalize: maybe an old neighbor’s TV, maybe wind sneaking through cracks in the siding. But Henry lived alone, in a cabin too far from anyone else for noise to carry.

He sat up, heart knocking against his ribs. The glow of the clock read 2:14 a.m. The radio on his nightstand was dark, unplugged since last winter when the storms fried its circuitry.

The whispers thickened, dozens of voices layered atop one another, all urgent, all restless. He pressed his palms to his ears, but the sound burrowed deeper, vibrating through the walls themselves.

Henry swung his legs out of bed, the floor cold under his feet. He pressed his ear to the wall nearest the headboard.

Yes. Louder now. Churning, as though an unseen crowd gathered just beyond the plaster.

He staggered back, stomach twisting. A laugh — faint but unmistakable — surfaced from the babble. Then another. Words began to sharpen, syllables striking like flint: “In here. In here. In here.”

“No,” Henry muttered, voice dry and cracking. “I’m dreaming.”

But then one voice cut clean through the others. Low, steady, closer than the rest.

“Henry.”

The sound of his name rooted him to the spot. No one should be here. No one knew he’d taken to hiding in this forgotten cabin after the divorce, after the job loss, after everything unraveled.

He forced a laugh, brittle as glass. “All right. Who’s out there?”

The walls answered. “You.”

Henry’s skin prickled. He backed toward the bedroom door, hands trembling. The air itself seemed to pulse, the wooden beams groaning with the weight of words.

“We’ve always been here. Waiting.”

He bolted down the hallway, each step echoing louder than the last. The whispers followed, rushing ahead, circling him, filling the cabin. In the kitchen, the single bulb flickered, shadows stretching like fingers across the ceiling.

“Stop it!” he shouted, gripping the counter. “Leave me alone!”

The voices laughed again, rising like a tide. Then the same singular tone silenced the others.

“We can’t leave, Henry. Not until you remember.”

His breath hitched. “Remember what?”

Silence fell, sudden and complete. The hush pressed harder than the whispers ever had, suffocating in its weight. Henry clutched the counter until his knuckles whitened.

Then, with a slow creak, the wall beside the refrigerator began to bulge outward, as if something inside strained to break through. A fissure split the paint, revealing darkness beyond.

And from that darkness, the voice whispered his name again — tender, almost familiar.

“Henry.”

This time, he recognized it. His father’s voice, long dead and buried.

The wall cracked wider.

And Henry realized the cabin hadn’t been empty after all.