When my boyfriend was a kid, he used to hear whispers coming from one of the rooms in his house at night. Not just faint sounds—actual conversations, like someone was waiting for him. One night, curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped inside. That’s when something tapped him—hard—on the back. So hard, in fact, that he blacked out. When he came to, he was on the floor, dazed, and there was a deep red mark across his back. It looked like a scratch from something with large paws. The scar is still there today. He doesn’t talk about it much, but it still creeps me out.
He said the room always felt colder than the rest of the house, like it didn’t belong. His parents brushed it off as imagination, but he swears the voices were real—low, murmuring, and oddly familiar.
The night it happened, he remembers feeling watched. Not just uneasy, but truly stalked. He didn’t see anyone, but the moment he stepped over the threshold, it was like something was waiting.
The tap wasn’t gentle. It knocked the wind out of him. He woke up hours later, alone, with that claw-like mark burning across his back. No one believed him.
He’s shown me the scar. It’s faded now, but unmistakable—four jagged lines, like something wild had swiped at him. He’s never been able to explain it.
We avoid that topic most days. But sometimes, when the house is too quiet, I catch him glancing over his shoulder—like he’s still listening for whispers.
