The Sound in the Walls

 

Mark woke up at 3:14 AM.

The house was dead quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. He rolled over, pulling the duvet tighter against the autumn chill.

Then, he heard it.

It came from behind the drywall in his bedroom—a slow, wet scratching sound.

Thump.

Scritch.

Thump.

Like fingernails pressing through heavy mud.

Mark sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He lived in a modern brick townhouse. There shouldn't be mice, let alone anything large enough to make the studs groan.

He held his breath and leaned his ear toward the cool paint of the wall.

The scratching stopped.

For ten agonizing seconds, the silence was absolute.

Then a voice whispered from inside the wall, right beside his pillow.

It didn't sound like a monster.

It sounded like Mark.

His own voice—raspy, exhausted, and choked with dust.

"I told you not to lock the door from the outside."

Mark froze.

He didn't dare look toward his bedroom door.

But he could hear it.

The slow, distinct click of the deadbolt turning.

From the inside.

Mark's eyes widened.

The lock clicked again.

Click.

Then the handle began to move.

Slowly.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Someone—or something—was trying to open the door.

Mark couldn't breathe.

His bedroom was on the second floor. His wife was away visiting her sister. There was nobody else in the house.

The handle stopped.

Silence.

Then three soft knocks came from the other side.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Mark stared at the door.

A whisper came through the gap beneath it.

"Mark?"

His stomach turned.

It was his voice again.

"Mark, let me in."

He backed away from the door until his shoulders touched the wall.

The same wall.

The wall where the scratching had begun.

He could feel something moving behind the drywall now.

Not scratching.

Crawling.

A slow pressure traveled through the wall beside him, as if a body were dragging itself between the wooden studs.

Mark stumbled away.

The plaster bulged.

Just slightly.

Then flattened.

He stared at it.

The bulge returned farther down.

Then farther.

Something was moving toward him.

He grabbed his phone.

No signal.

Of course.

He tried calling emergency services anyway.

The screen remained frozen.

3:14 AM.

The time hadn't changed.

Mark looked at the clock on his nightstand.

3:14.

He glanced at his phone.

3:14.

The digital alarm clock.

3:14.

Every clock in the room had stopped.

A terrible realization crept into his mind.

He remembered something.

Something he had spent years trying not to remember.

The house hadn't always been his.

The previous owner had disappeared.

The estate agent had called it a "family tragedy" and said the property had been completely renovated afterward.

New floors.

New plumbing.

New electrical wiring.

New drywall.

Mark remembered the first night he'd slept there.

He remembered waking at 3:14 AM.

He remembered hearing scratching.

He remembered thinking it was mice.

But he had forgotten what happened afterward.

Until now.

The wall beside him gave a wet, hollow thump.

Then another.

Then another.

Mark slowly lifted his hand and touched the plaster.

Something touched back.

From inside.

A fingertip pressed against the wall.

Five tiny ridges appeared beneath the paint.

Mark recoiled.

Then another hand pressed against the plaster.

Then another.

There were too many.

Hands.

Dozens of them.

Pressing outward from inside the walls.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open.

Mark screamed.

There was nobody standing there.

Only darkness.

Then he saw the hallway.

The walls were covered in photographs.

Family photographs.

Hundreds of them.

People he didn't recognize.

Families standing in front of the house.

Children sitting on the stairs.

Couples smiling in the kitchen.

Generation after generation.

But every photograph had the same strange detail.

Every person was looking directly at the camera.

Except one.

Mark stepped closer.

In every photograph, somewhere in the background, there was a man standing partially hidden behind a doorway.

His face was turned away.

Mark felt sick.

Because he recognized the clothes.

The grey shirt.

The dark trousers.

The wedding ring.

They were his clothes.

He lifted one trembling hand to his own wedding ring.

The photographs began to change.

Faces turned.

One by one.

Every person in every photograph slowly looked toward Mark.

Their mouths opened.

And from inside the walls came hundreds of whispering voices.

"I told you not to lock the door from the outside."

Mark stumbled backward.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

The scratching returned.

But now it wasn't coming from the wall.

It was coming from underneath the bed.

Scritch.

Mark stopped breathing.

Scritch.

Something dragged its nails across the wooden floor beneath him.

He looked down.

A pale hand slowly emerged from beneath the bed.

Then another.

Then a face.

His face.

Older.

Hollow-eyed.

Its skin was grey and stretched tight over its skull.

Dust filled its mouth.

It smiled at him.

"You finally remembered."

Mark couldn't move.

The thing beneath the bed reached upward and grabbed his ankle.

Its fingers were freezing.

Mark screamed and kicked.

The creature pulled harder.

His fingernails tore against the carpet as he tried to hold himself back.

"Who are you?" he sobbed.

The thing smiled wider.

"I told you."

Its voice was barely a whisper.

"I told you not to lock the door from the outside."

Suddenly, Mark remembered.

The night before.

The moving boxes.

The renovation.

The locked bedroom.

The hammer.

The drywall.

The sound of something screaming behind the wall.

And then—

A second Mark standing in the doorway.

Watching.

Holding the deadbolt.

Mark's memories came rushing back.

He hadn't moved into the house.

He had been living inside it.

For months.

Maybe years.

And every night at 3:14, he woke up and forgot.

Because forgetting was the only thing keeping him sane.

The creature beneath the bed pulled him closer.

"There's only one way out," it whispered.

Mark looked toward the wall.

A thin crack had appeared in the drywall.

Cold air seeped through it.

And behind the crack, someone was breathing.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Waiting.

Mark crawled toward it.

The creature released his ankle.

He reached for the crack.

His fingers touched the broken plaster.

Then a hand burst through the wall and seized his wrist.

Mark screamed.

The hand pulled.

Hard.

The wall opened like wet paper.

And Mark was dragged inside.

For one terrible second, he saw what was behind the drywall.

Not insulation.

Not pipes.

A narrow corridor.

Endless.

Its walls were packed with doors.

Hundreds of them.

And behind every door, someone was scratching.

Thump.

Scritch.

Thump.

Mark was pulled into the darkness.

The wall sealed itself behind him.

The bedroom became silent.

Completely silent.

Then, downstairs, the front door opened.

A man walked into the house.

He was carrying a suitcase.

He looked around nervously.

The estate agent had told him the house was empty.

He set down his suitcase.

Checked his phone.

3:14 AM.

From upstairs came a faint sound.

Thump.

Scritch.

Thump.

The man frowned.

Then he heard a voice from inside the wall.

His own voice.

Raspy.

Choked.

Terrified.

"Don't let him in."

The man slowly looked toward the staircase.

And somewhere behind him, the front door clicked shut.

From the outside.

The house had found its next owner.