The Whispers in the Fan
James had always been a light sleeper. Every night, he relied on the quiet hum of his ceiling fan to lull him into sleep. The fan, a sturdy old thing left by the previous tenant, had a slight wobble and gave off a gentle creak with each rotation. But the sound was soothing, like a heartbeat in the silence.
One night, as James lay in bed, he heard a faint whisper. He sat up, heart pounding, but no one was there. He glanced around, dismissing it as his imagination. He lay back down, and then he heard it again—a soft murmur, as if someone was trying to speak over the hum of the fan. This time, the words were clearer.
"Turn...me...off."
James bolted upright, staring at the fan. He told himself he was just hearing things, just the whirr and wobble playing tricks on him. But then the whisper came again, louder and clearer.
"Turn...me...off...before...it's...too...late."
Shaking, James reached for the switch, and as soon as he flipped it, silence fell. He lay back down, but a chill crept over him as he realized the silence was unsettlingly loud. But just as he was drifting off, the fan turned itself back on.
A cold draft washed over him, and the whispers began again, faster this time, the voices more urgent.
"You...have...to...listen...you...can't...stay."
In terror, James watched the fan blades begin spinning faster, faster than they ever had before. Dust flew off in spirals, and the shadows cast on the walls twisted into shapes that seemed alive.
The fan’s hum grew to a scream, and with a sudden jolt, one of the blades flew off, narrowly missing James’s head, slicing into the wall beside him. The whispers filled the room in a maddening chorus, but there was one voice, clearer and sharper than the others:
"This fan isn’t haunted...it’s hungry."
The next morning, the landlord found the room empty, with only the fan spinning slowly, creaking in a rhythm that sounded almost like laughter.
The Whispers in the Fan
James had always been a light sleeper. Every night, he relied on the quiet hum of his ceiling fan to lull him into sleep. The fan, a sturdy old thing left by the previous tenant, had a slight wobble and gave off a gentle creak with each rotation. But the sound was soothing, like a heartbeat in the silence.
One night, as James lay in bed, he heard a faint whisper. He sat up, heart pounding, but no one was there. He glanced around, dismissing it as his imagination. He lay back down, and then he heard it again—a soft murmur, as if someone was trying to speak over the hum of the fan. This time, the words were clearer.
"Turn...me...off."
James bolted upright, staring at the fan. He told himself he was just hearing things, just the whirr and wobble playing tricks on him. But then the whisper came again, louder and clearer.
"Turn...me...off...before...it's...too...late."
Shaking, James reached for the switch, and as soon as he flipped it, silence fell. He lay back down, but a chill crept over him as he realized the silence was unsettlingly loud. But just as he was drifting off, the fan turned itself back on.
A cold draft washed over him, and the whispers began again, faster this time, the voices more urgent.
"You...have...to...listen...you...can't...stay."
In terror, James watched the fan blades begin spinning faster, faster than they ever had before. Dust flew off in spirals, and the shadows cast on the walls twisted into shapes that seemed alive.
The fan’s hum grew to a scream, and with a sudden jolt, one of the blades flew off, narrowly missing James’s head, slicing into the wall beside him. The whispers filled the room in a maddening chorus, but there was one voice, clearer and sharper than the others:
"This fan isn’t haunted...it’s hungry."
The next morning, the landlord found the room empty, with only the fan spinning slowly, creaking in a rhythm that sounded almost like laughter.
