The Hollow Sound of Empty Rooms

My grandmother had the sight, or so my mother always said. She could feel the weight of a place, the lingering dust of those who’d passed through. My mother swore I had it too, but I never was sure. I just knew that in my aunty’s old house, the air was thick with something I couldn’t name.

The house itself was ordinary, a two-story brick row home in a quiet part of the city. My aunty had inherited it years ago, but only moved in recently, after her divorce. She and her boyfriend, Derek, had fixed up the place, painted the walls a warm yellow, hung family photos. But no amount of paint could cover the feeling that we were never quite alone.

I remember the first time I heard it. I was in the living room, reading, when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Soft, deliberate, like someone trying not to be heard. I called out, ‘Aunty? Derek?’ No answer. I got up, my heart thumping, and peeked into the hallway. Empty. The stairs were bare, the top landing dark. I shook it off, blaming my imagination.

But it didn’t stop. A few days later, I was home alone (Aunty was at work, Derek at his job) and I heard the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen. I walked in, expecting to find someone. The kitchen was spotless, everything in its place. Not a single pot off its hook. I laughed nervously, telling myself it was the plumbing.

Then came the dropping. A heavy thud, right behind me, in the dining room. I spun around, but nothing was on the floor. The carpet showed no sign of impact. I felt a cold sweat prickle at my neck. That’s when I called my cousin, Marcus.

‘Don’t laugh,’ I said, my voice shaky. I told him everything, the footsteps, the kitchen noises, the drop. He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe it’s just the house settling.’ But then I heard it again, a slow knock, right above my head. Three sharp raps on the ceiling. I screamed, ‘Did you hear that?’ Marcus said, ‘Hear what?’ He hadn’t. I started to cry, and I could feel something watching. I whispered, ‘There’s someone in the house with me.’

Marcus tried to calm me, said he was coming over. But I couldn’t wait. I ran to the front door, but it was locked. I unlocked it, but before I could open it, I heard a voice. It was indistinct, like a radio tuned to static, but there were words, I thought. I clutched the phone, sobbing, ‘Marcus, they’re saying something.’ He was all alarms, telling me to get out. But I was frozen, my hand on the knob, feeling a presence right behind me.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The air lightened. I turned, and the room was peaceful, sun streaming through the window. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me, that something had been there, had wanted me to know it existed. I never told Aunty about the full extent of it. She’d always just say, ‘We’re trippin, sweetie. Just old house sounds.’ But I knew the truth. It wasn’t the house. It was the hollow sound of empty rooms, and I was hearing it loud and clear.

I never set foot in that house again alone. I’d visit only when Aunty was there, but always with a knot in my stomach, listening for the footsteps, the knocks, the whispers. And sometimes, when the house is still, I still hear them, and I wonder if my grandma’s gift was more curse than blessing, and if I’ll ever know peace in silence again.