The Unheard Answer

The old farmhouse on Cedar Hollow Road had been in my family for generations, and for the most part, it was a peaceful place. I’d moved back in with my partner, Sam, after my grandmother passed, hoping to fix the place up and sell it. We’d been there for three months, and aside from the occasional creak of settling wood, it was quiet. Or so I thought.

One evening, around nine, I was in the laundry room at the back of the house, loading a load of work clothes. Sam had just come home and was heading upstairs to change out of his suit. I heard his footsteps on the wooden stairs, a familiar rhythm, as I finished sorting the darks and threw the last shirt in the washing machine. I then headed to the kitchen to make some tea, my mind on the dead rosebushes by the porch, when Sam’s voice came from the top of the stairs, sharp and urgent.

‘I need to tell you something,’ he said, his face pale and eyes wide.

I set my mug down, my stomach tightening. ‘What’s wrong?’

He took a breath, then told me that as he was climbing the steps, he’d called out to me, figuring I was in the bedroom, feeding the cat, as it was past her dinner time. He asked, ‘Hey, babe, are you feeding the cats?’ And a woman’s voice, clear as day, replied, ‘Yes.’ He assumed it was me, so he continued up, but when he reached the landing, he looked into the bedroom, and the room was empty. The cats were meowing in their bowls, and the room was quiet. He called my name again, but there was no answer. Then he heard me downstairs, clattering around, and knew something was wrong.

I laughed nervously, thinking he was playing a joke. ‘You’re messing with me, right?’ But he shook his head, his face serious. I’d been in the laundry room and then the kitchen; I hadn’t been near the stairs. And there was nowhere to hide on the landing – just the two doors to the bedroom and the bathroom, both open, and the hallway closet, which was stuffed with boxes. No one could have been there.

We tried to brush it off as an auditory hallucination, maybe from the wind or the pipes. But over the next few days, it happened more. I would be upstairs in the office, and I’d hear Sam call for me from the kitchen, asking where something was, and I’d answer, only to realize Sam was outside mowing the lawn. Or I’d hear a child giggling in the hallway when we had no kids. The voices were indistinct most of the time, but occasionally a phrase would cut through: ‘Turn it off,’ or ‘Please, no,’ always coming from rooms we’d just left, or from the empty attic.

We rationalized it. The house was old; we had a lot of wind drafts; maybe there was a radio interference from the neighbor’s CB. But one night, we had a visitor stay over – my college friend, Mia. We’d told her about the voices, and she was skeptical, but curious. At 2 AM, she woke us up, shaking. She’d been sleeping in the guest room, which was directly above the kitchen. She said she heard a woman crying, and then a man yelling, and then what sounded like a crash. We all went down to the kitchen, half-expecting to find a mess, but everything was spotless. Mia was spooked and couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

That got me digging into the house’s history. My grandmother had never mentioned anything strange, but in the town records, I found a news article from 1956. The house had been rented by a couple, George and Elsie. One night, George came home late and found his wife dead at the bottom of the kitchen stairs, neck broken. The police ruled it an accident, but there was rumor that George had a temper and that they’d been heard arguing. He moved away shortly after. The house passed through various owners, none staying long.

Suddenly, the voices made sense. They were echoes, residual recordings of that couple’s final hours. That would explain the crying, the shouting, the crash. I told Sam, and we both felt a mix of fear and relief. It was creepy, but not a threat. We decided to ignore it, to live with it. We figured it would fade, like an old tape.

But it didn’t. It got clearer. We started to understand the woman’s words: ‘I didn’t mean it, George,’ and ‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’ And then one night, as I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, I heard the voice of a man, not just an echo, but as if he were right behind me. He said, ‘She’s still here, and she’s not happy.’ I spun around, but no one was there.

The next day, I was in the attic, trying to find some old Christmas decorations, when I slipped on a loose board and fell through the ceiling, landing in the hallway below. I broke my ankle, and as I lay on the floor in pain, I heard a woman’s voice, clear and close, say, ‘I know how you feel.’

I looked up, and for a split second, I saw a figure in a white dress at the top of the stairs, before it vanished. Sam rushed in and called an ambulance, but I couldn’t stop replaying the image. I was no longer sure the voices were just echoes. They seemed to be aware of us, reacting to us.

After that, I researched more. I found old court records. George had been tried for his wife’s murder, but acquitted due to lack of evidence. My grandmother’s diary, hidden in a drawer, revealed that she never used the master bedroom because she ‘felt watched’ there. She had also recorded a strange incident in 1998 where she heard her late husband’s voice, but he was nowhere near.

Now, I can’t shake the feeling that the house is not just haunted; it’s a trap. The voices are luring us, trying to get us to interact, to answer when they call. I’ve read too much about these things, and I know that acknowledging a mimic can give it power over you. So we’ve decided to leave. We’re selling the house, even if it’s at a loss. We’re moving to a condo in the city, away from these voices.

Last night, as we were packing the last boxes, I heard a woman’s voice from the empty kitchen, calling out, ‘Are you leaving?’ I didn’t answer. Sam didn’t either. But as we drove away this morning, I looked back, and in the upstairs window, I saw a dark figure staring out. And then I heard, in the silence of the car, a whisper that filled the entire vehicle: ‘I’ll be with you always.’

We looked at each other, and neither of us spoke. But I know we’re both thinking the same thing: we didn’t escape. The voices aren’t just in the house. They’re attached to us now.

We’re in a motel now, an anonymous room with new furniture, but just a few minutes ago, I heard Sam call my name from the bathroom, and I started to answer, but I stopped. Because Sam is right next to me, asleep. And the voice from the bathroom was not his.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. But I know one thing for sure: I will never answer a voice that isn’t in the same room as me, ever again.