The Haunting of the Ghostly Child

It started with whispers.

Late at night, when the house was silent, a faint voice echoed through the halls.

At first, it was dismissed as the wind, but then the whispers formed words—pleading, desperate.

'Help me,' it said.

The family searched, but no one was there.

Just the cold air and the feeling of unseen eyes watching.

Then came the footsteps—soft, hesitant, like a child wandering in the dark.

They echoed through the house, stopping just outside the bedroom doors.

One night, the mother gathered her courage and opened the door.

Nothing.

But as she turned away, a small giggle echoed behind her.

She spun around, heart pounding.

The hallway was empty.

The child appeared in glimpses—a reflection in the mirror, a shadow in the corner.

One night, the father saw it clearly.

A little girl in a tattered dress, staring with hollow eyes.

He reached out, but she vanished.

The next morning, they found an old photograph in the attic.

The same girl, smiling, decades before.

Determined to uncover the truth, they researched the house’s history.

A tragedy long forgotten—a child lost in a fire, never found.

That night, the whispers returned, softer this time.

'Thank you,' the voice murmured.

The air grew still.

The house, once heavy with sorrow, felt lighter.

The ghostly child was finally at peace.