Lost in the Echoes

**"You're the last one, Jon,"** the scratchy voice said over the phone. It was the lawyer. Jon still in his living room back in Chicago, Mrs. Finnegan brought the news: **an inheritance** - the old family house in a town wrapping itself in the fog, called Wildewood. Two days later, Jon found himself bumping along winding roads, anticipation mingling with unease. Wildewood welcomed him with a silence that felt eerily out of place, crawling under his skin like an uninvited guest. The house was just like in the tales his mother used to murmur in the dark: warped steps that creaked in protest, wallpaper peeling as though trying to whisper old secrets. Even the air felt heavy, nearly soaked in memories it wasn't ready to let go. What drew Jon were the voices — whispers if you will — calling out from the very fabric of the walls, their cries woven into the threads of a bygone era. At first, he thought it was the wind rattling through gaps in the windows, but each night they grew clearer, more distinct. They tangled in his sleep, pulling him deeper. **"It's just the creaks of an old house,"** Jon reasoned, shoving the haunting whispers to the back of his mind. But something kept gnawing at him, an insistent echo that refused to fade. Weeks passed, yet Jon remained. An unnerving obsession rooted him there. He spent days rummaging through dusty attics and shadow-filled basements, nights seeking warmth in the glow of a solitary lamp, surrounded by clippings and historical records. Uncovered secrets about the house floated up like gasps of history that *could not breathe*: its inhabitants vanished without a trace. Their tales hung in the whispering echoes. **"Why not just sell it?"** friends back in Chicago prodded over the phone. **"I need to see this through,"** was Jon's clipped response. One chilly evening, amidst stacks of yellowed papers, he found the old map of the house. Eager, a compulsion gripped him to follow it. It guided him to an odd crease in the floorboards of the library. Curiosity couldn't be curbed; he pried open the hidden door. Beneath lay a room — dark, oppressive, steeped in a musty past. Jon choked on dust that plumed up in swirling columns as he dared step deeper in. In the room's center sat an object — an ancient wooden gramophone, unnervingly pristine, with whispers suspected to be tied to its existence. Jon hesitated. Something primal screamed warning. But the whispers rose insistent, stifling any logical hesitance. Hands trembling, he wound the crank, the needle poised. Suddenly, music poured forth - a soul-gnawing harmony not entirely of this world. It shuddered through the room, bathing Jon in something colder than mere sound - it was a direct connection to the house's lost souls. He was **plunging into the echoes themselves.** Faces formed — swirling apparitions of those who had come before, all bearing one similar grimace of dread and longing. **"Break free,"** their voices called, **"break the cycle. Don't be like us!”** Their pleas rang in his ears, pulling him back to the present. Sweat trickled as Jon staggered away from the gramophone. He fought past the fettered sobs pulling at him. He had to escape, **had** to leave this cursed place, sever the chains binding him to this echoing fate. The gramophone's melody swelled, mere murmurs to obsidian crescendo. Jon forced the needle off and fled the room, closing the hidden door with a weak but resolved shove. Wildewood released him, vaulting him back onto roads that led toward the everyday paleness of reality. **The house? He left it...for now.** But echoes followed, etched in his soul as a stark reminder. Never again would he hear whispers without pondering those resonating, desperate cries.