The Wallpaper Has Eyes
The house didn’t just have walls; it had pores. At night, the wallpaper, a peeling, jaundiced floral pattern, seemed to sweat a thin, oily sheen. Elias sat in the center of his living room, a single bulb flickering overhead like a dying heartbeat. I always feel like somebody’s watching me. For three weeks, the sensation had been a physical weight, a pressure against the back of his skull like the cold barrel of a pistol. He had checked the locks until his knuckles bled. He had stuffed towels under the floorboards and taped over every vent, every keyhole, every sliver of glass. But privacy was a luxury for the living. He turned his head sharply, his neck cracking in the silence. Nothing. Just the shadows stretching long, spindly fingers across the floorboards. But the air felt thick, charged with the musk of wet earth and rot. "Who's there?" he rasped, his voice sounding thin and alien in the tomb-like quiet. No answer. Only the rhythmic drip-drip-drip from the kitchen s...
