Whispers from the Phonograph

Unraveling the Farmhouse's Forgotten Echoes

Martha M.C. Jenkins

 Copyright © 2025 by Martha M.C. Jenkins

Chapter 1

The Inheritance of Echoes

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, its envelope yellowed with age and smelling faintly of damp earth. Elara Voss turned it over in her hands, the embossed seal of her grandmother’s law firm pressing into her fingertips like an old wound. She had known this day would come—Marjorie had been gone for months—but the finality of the thick parchment still caught her off guard.

The contents were sparse: a farmhouse in Tasmania, a modest sum, and an antique phonograph. The last item was described as "a family heirloom of significant sentimental value." Elara frowned at that. Sentimental value implied memories, warmth—things she associated with her grandmother’s kitchen table, not the cold, isolated farmhouse where Marjorie had spent her final years.

Three days later, Elara stood in the doorway of the farmhouse, the key biting into her palm. The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of aged wood. Sunlight filtered through grimy windows, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward her like grasping fingers. She stepped inside, her boots echoing on the creaking floorboards.

The phonograph sat in the corner of the parlor, its brass body tarnished but still gleaming dully in the dim light. It was an old Edison model, the kind that played wax cylinders rather than records. Elara approached it cautiously, as if it might bite her. She ran a finger along its edge, leaving a trail in the dust.

There was no electricity in the farmhouse, but the phonograph didn’t need it. A hand crank protruded from one side, and beside it lay a single wax cylinder, its surface etched with tiny grooves. Elara picked it up, turning it over in her hands. It felt heavy, somehow—too substantial for something so small.

She hesitated before placing the cylinder on the phonograph’s spindle. The crank turned with a satisfying resistance, the mechanism whirring to life as she wound it tight. Then, with a deep breath, she lowered the needle onto the wax.

At first, there was only silence. Then—a whisper.

Elara froze. The voice was faint, barely audible over the crackle of static. It spoke in fragments, words that didn’t quite connect into sentences. She leaned closer, her pulse quickening.

"...remember me..." The voice was female, young, and laced with a desperation that made Elara’s skin prickle. "...don’t let them forget..."

The recording ended abruptly, the needle lifting with a soft click. Elara exhaled sharply, her heart pounding in her chest. She replayed the cylinder three times before the words began to make sense.

"...remember me..." The plea was clear now, raw and aching. And beneath it, something else—a warning? A threat?

Elara’s fingers trembled as she lifted the needle again. This time, when she lowered it, a different voice spoke.

"Elara."

She jerked back, her breath catching in her throat. That wasn’t part of the recording. It couldn’t be.

The voice was deeper this time, male, and far too close for comfort. "You shouldn’t have come here."

The phonograph hissed and crackled, but the words were unmistakable. Elara’s pulse roared in her ears as she stared at the machine, half-expecting it to lunge at her.

Then, silence.

She stood there for a long moment, her mind racing. Had she imagined it? The isolation of the farmhouse was getting to her already, that much was clear. But the voice had sounded so real—so present.

Elara forced herself to take a deep breath. She needed answers, and the only place to find them was in this house.

She turned away from the phonograph, her eyes scanning the room for clues. A bookshelf stood against one wall, its shelves lined with dusty tomes and yellowed photographs. Elara approached it, running her fingers along the spines of the books until she found what she was looking for: a journal.

The cover was leather-bound, cracked with age. Inside, Marjorie’s handwriting sprawled across the pages in looping, elegant script. Elara flipped through the entries, her eyes skimming over dates and descriptions of daily life on the farm. Then, near the back, she found something that made her blood run cold.

"The phonograph speaks to me now," Marjorie had written, her handwriting growing increasingly erratic. *"It knows things—things I never told anyone. It says they’re still here."*

Elara’s fingers tightened around the journal. The words blurred in front of her eyes as she read on, the pages growing darker with each entry.

"I shouldn’t have listened," Marjorie had written in her final entry. *"Now it won’t let me go."*

The room seemed to tilt around Elara as she stared at those words. She could feel the weight of the house pressing down on her, its walls closing in like a coffin.

And then, from behind her, the phonograph began to play again.

Elara whirled around, her heart hammering against her ribs. The needle wasn’t even touching the wax this time—it just sat there, motionless, while the voice spilled out into the room.

"Welcome home, Elara."

The words were a whisper, a caress, and a threat all at once. And as they echoed through the farmhouse, Elara knew one thing for certain:

She was not alone.

Chapter 2

Voices in the Static

The farmhouse groaned under the weight of another Tasmanian night. Elara Voss sat hunched over the antique phonograph, her fingers tracing the grooves of its polished surface. The device was an enigma, a relic from a time long past, and yet it hummed with an eerie vitality that seemed to pulse in sync with her own heartbeat.

She had spent the better part of the day setting up her recording equipment, meticulously calibrating each piece to capture every whisper, every creak, every unnatural sound the phonograph might produce. The house itself was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, its walls thick with the weight of forgotten stories. Elara felt a strange kinship with this place, as if the very air whispered her name in hushed tones.

The first recording had been faint, barely more than a whisper lost in the static. But it was enough to send a shiver down her spine. A woman's voice, soft and pleading, had murmured something about "remembering" and "forgetting." Elara replayed the fragment countless times, her technical mind dissecting each syllable, searching for clues.

As night fell, the farmhouse seemed to close in around her. The wind howled through the eaves, a mournful dirge that echoed the loneliness she had carried with her since leaving the city. She pressed the phonograph's needle to the record again, her breath catching as the static cleared and another voice emerged.

"This place... it remembers," the voice whispered, its tone laced with a desperation that made Elara's skin prickle. "It never forgets."

Elara leaned closer, her heart pounding in her chest. The voice was clearer this time, more distinct. It spoke of things she couldn't comprehend—of shadows that moved when no one was looking, of whispers that slithered through the walls like serpents.

"Who are you?" Elara asked aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. The phonograph crackled in response, the static growing louder before settling into an eerie silence.

She spent hours poring over the recordings, transcribing each fragment, analyzing every nuance. The voices were fragmented, their messages obscured by time and static. But one thing was clear: they were reaching out to her, desperate for something she couldn't yet understand.

As the night wore on, Elara's exhaustion began to take its toll. Her eyes grew heavy, her thoughts muddled. She found herself drifting in and out of consciousness, the phonograph's whispers blending with the howling wind outside.

In her half-sleep state, she thought she heard a new voice—one that was different from the others. It was deeper, more resonant, and it called her name with an urgency that sent a jolt of adrenaline through her veins.

"Elara," the voice whispered, its tone laced with a familiarity that made her blood run cold. "You have to listen."

She snapped awake, her heart hammering against her ribs. The phonograph was silent, the needle resting motionless on the record. But the air around her felt charged, as if something unseen had just brushed past her.

Elara knew she should stop, that she should put some distance between herself and this haunted relic. But the pull of the phonograph was too strong. She needed to know more, to uncover the secrets hidden within its eerie recordings.

With a deep breath, she pressed the needle back onto the record, her fingers trembling as the static filled the room once more. The voices returned, their whispers growing louder, more insistent. And then, amidst the cacophony of sound, one voice rose above the rest—a voice that seemed to speak directly to her.

"You can't ignore us forever," it whispered, its tone laced with a chilling finality. "We are part of you now."

Elara's breath hitched in her throat as the realization dawned on her. The phonograph wasn't just a recording device—it was a gateway, a bridge between the past and the present. And the voices... they weren't just echoes of the dead.

They were reaching out to her, demanding to be heard.

As the night wore on, Elara found herself drawn deeper into the phonograph's eerie world, her sanity hanging by a thread. The farmhouse seemed to close in around her, its walls whispering secrets she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

But one thing was certain: she couldn't turn back now. The voices had found her, and they wouldn't let go until their story was told.

And Elara... she would listen, no matter the cost.

Chapter 3

Marjorie's Hidden Truths

The farmhouse groaned under the weight of another Tasmanian night, its timbers settling like an old man into his chair. Elara sat cross-legged on the floor of her grandmother’s study, surrounded by stacks of yellowed papers and dusty ledgers. The phonograph stood sentinel in the corner, its brass horn gleaming dully in the lamplight.

She had spent the better part of the day sifting through Marjorie’s belongings, searching for any clue that might explain the eerie recordings. The voice from the phonograph had grown more insistent, its whispers now laced with a desperate urgency. Remember me, it had pleaded before the recording ended in a crackle of static.

Elara picked up a small, leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with faded gold lettering: M.V. She flipped through the pages, her fingers tracing the spidery handwriting. The entries were sporadic, some dating back decades, others more recent. They spoke of mundane things—weather, household repairs, the occasional visit from a neighbor. But as she delved deeper, the tone shifted.

Something is wrong with this house, one entry read. *The walls whisper when the wind blows just right. I hear voices in the phonograph, voices that shouldn’t be there.*

Elara’s breath hitched. She turned the page, her heart pounding.

The phonograph isn’t just a machine. It’s a doorway. And what comes through it… it’s not always kind.

She set the journal down, her hands trembling slightly. The study felt colder suddenly, the air thick with an unseen presence. She glanced at the phonograph, half-expecting to see the needle tremble on its own.

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

Elara froze, her ears straining against the silence. The house was old; it settled and groaned all the time. But this sound had been deliberate, like a footstep.

She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing through the empty rooms.

No answer.

Elara hesitated, then made her way to the staircase. The steps were steep and narrow, the banister worn smooth by decades of use. She climbed slowly, her pulse quickening with each step.

The upstairs hallway was dark, the only light filtering in from a small window at the end. Elara flicked on the switch, but nothing happened. The bulb must have burned out.

She pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the darkness like a knife. The hallway stretched before her, doors leading to bedrooms and storage rooms standing slightly ajar.

Elara approached the first door, pushing it open with a creak. Inside, the room was empty save for a few dusty boxes and an old wardrobe. She moved on to the next, then the next, each one as barren as the last.

The final door at the end of the hall was closed. Elara hesitated before reaching out, her fingers brushing against the cool wood. She pushed it open, revealing a small bedroom bathed in moonlight.

And there, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Marjorie’s old rocking chair.

Elara stepped inside, her flashlight beam dancing over the faded quilt and the framed photographs on the wall. The chair rocked gently, as if someone had just stood up from it.

She turned to leave, but a whisper stopped her in her tracks.

Stay.

The voice was soft, barely more than a breath, but it sent a shiver down Elara’s spine. She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The room was empty.

Elara backed out of the bedroom, her eyes never leaving the rocking chair. The whisper came again, louder this time.

Remember me.

She stumbled down the hallway, her breath coming in short gasps. The stairs seemed to stretch endlessly before her, each step a struggle against an invisible weight.

By the time she reached the study, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely turn on the phonograph. But she did, her fingers fumbling with the crank until the needle settled onto the record.

The voice was waiting for her.

You found my journals, it said, its tone almost conversational. *Good. You’re getting closer.*

Elara swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause, then the voice answered, its words heavy with something like sorrow.

I am what this house has made me. And I need your help to be free.

Chapter 4

The Phonograph's Sentience

The farmhouse groaned under the weight of another Tasmanian night, its timbers settling like an old man into his chair. Elara sat cross-legged on the floor, the antique phonograph perched precariously before her. The room was bathed in the dim glow of a single oil lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to whisper secrets against the walls.

She had spent hours poring over her grandmother's journals, their yellowed pages filled with frantic scribbles and desperate pleas for understanding. The phonograph, it seemed, had been more than just a curiosity to Marjorie—it had been an obsession. A doorway, perhaps, to something she could never fully comprehend.

Elara placed the needle on the record once more, her breath catching in her throat as the familiar crackle filled the room. This time, however, the voice that emerged was different. It was clearer, more insistent. And it was speaking directly to her.

"Elara," it whispered, a breath of sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Can you hear me?"

She leaned closer, her heart pounding in her chest. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The voice hesitated, as if considering its response. "I am the echo of what was," it said finally. "I am the memory that lingers. I am the one who has been waiting for you."

Elara's hands trembled as she adjusted the phonograph's volume, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting to see something—or someone—emerge from the shadows. "What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice steadier now.

The voice was silent for a moment, then it spoke again, its tone urgent. "You must listen," it said. "You must understand what happened here. The truth is buried deep, but it must be unearthed. It is the only way to break the cycle."

Elara's mind raced as she tried to make sense of the voice's words. She thought of her grandmother's journals, of the fragmented stories they contained. She thought of the farmhouse itself, its walls seemingly alive with the echoes of the past.

"Tell me," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Tell me what happened here."

The voice began to speak, its words flowing like a river breaking through a dam. It spoke of betrayal and heartache, of love lost and promises broken. It spoke of a darkness that had taken root in the very foundations of the farmhouse, a darkness that had grown and festered with each passing year.

As Elara listened, she felt a coldness creeping into her bones, a chill that seemed to seep from the very walls around her. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off the encroaching cold.

The voice continued, its words growing more frantic with each passing moment. "You must help me," it pleaded. "You must set things right. The past is not dead, Elara. It is very much alive. And it is waiting for you."

Elara's breath hitched in her throat as she realized the truth of the voice's words. The farmhouse was not just a relic of the past—it was a living, breathing entity, its walls steeped in the memories of those who had come before. And she was now a part of that history, whether she liked it or not.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against the phonograph's polished surface. "I will help you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the record. "I promise."

As the last words left her lips, the room seemed to shift around her, the shadows deepening and the air growing colder still. The voice fell silent, leaving only the faintest whisper of sound in its wake.

Elara sat there for a long moment, her mind racing with the implications of what she had just heard. She knew that she could not turn back now—not after making that promise. The phonograph's sentience had revealed a truth that could no longer be ignored, and she was determined to see it through to the end.

With a deep breath, she stood up, her resolve hardening like steel in her chest. She would uncover the secrets of the farmhouse, no matter what it took. She would set things right.

And she would do it alone.

Chapter 5

Whispers into the Void

The farmhouse groaned under the weight of another storm, its ancient timbers shuddering as wind howled through the eaves. Elara sat hunched over the phonograph, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the needle for what felt like the hundredth time that night. The device had become an extension of herself, a dark mirror reflecting fragments of a past she was no longer sure existed outside her own mind.

The recordings had evolved. No longer mere whispers of the dead, they now responded—sometimes to questions Elara hadn’t even realized she’d asked aloud. The Voice, as she had come to think of it, had grown more insistent, its tone shifting from pleading to something far more dangerous: demanding.

She pressed the play button, and the phonograph sprang to life with a mechanical whir. Static hissed through the speaker before settling into a low, rhythmic hum. Then, the Voice:

"Elara."

Her breath hitched. It knew her name now.

"You’re closer than you think," it continued, its words slurred as if spoken through layers of time and decay. *"The truth is in the walls. The house remembers everything."*

She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering in her throat. "What does that mean?" she whispered to the empty room.

A pause. Then, a sound like dry leaves scraping against stone. "Look beneath the floorboards. Where the blood was spilled."

Elara’s stomach twisted. Blood? She had found no evidence of violence in the house—no stains, no signs of struggle. Just the phonograph and its growing chorus of ghosts.

But the Voice had never lied to her before. Not exactly.

She stood, her legs unsteady as she made her way to the corner of the room where the floorboards showed faint signs of wear. Kneeling, she pried up a loose plank with her fingers, wincing at the splinters that bit into her skin. Beneath it lay only dust and darkness—until her fingertips brushed against something cold and smooth.

A journal.

Her grandmother’s handwriting sprawled across the yellowed pages, the ink faded but still legible. She flipped to the first entry:

"The phonograph is more than a machine. It captures not just sound, but memory itself. And some memories refuse to stay buried."

Elara’s hands shook as she turned the page, her eyes scanning the frantic scrawl.

"I’ve heard them too. The voices. They’re not just echoes—they’re alive. Hungry. They want out."

A cold dread settled in her chest. If the phonograph was a vessel for trapped souls, then what happened when they found a way to escape?

The Voice hissed through the speaker again, its tone shifting into something guttural, almost triumphant.

"You’ve found it," it said. *"Now you understand."*

Elara slammed her palm against the phonograph’s lid, cutting off the sound with a metallic clang. Silence crashed over her like a wave, but it was too late—the damage was done. The Voice had guided her here for a reason.

She stood, her mind racing as she clutched the journal to her chest. The house creaked around her, its walls seeming to press in closer with every breath. The storm outside raged on, but inside, something far worse was stirring.

The phonograph’s needle scraped against the record again, the sound piercing the quiet like a knife.

"You can’t unhear us now," the Voice whispered. *"We’re part of you."*

Elara backed away, her heart pounding in her ears. The journal slipped from her fingers, its pages fluttering to the floor like fallen leaves.

She had to get out. Had to escape before whatever was trapped inside the phonograph found a way to claim her too.

But as she turned toward the door, the house seemed to shift around her, the walls stretching and warping into something unrecognizable. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and old blood, and for the first time, Elara wondered if she would ever leave this place alive.

The phonograph’s needle continued its relentless path across the record, the Voice rising in a crescendo of static and screams.

"You belong to us now."

And then, the house swallowed her whole.