The day Jenna moved into her grandmother’s old estate; curiosity had gotten the best of her. “That place…it never truly empties,” was the same cautionary song, sung by all her neighbors. Jenna laughed it off, calling it silly superstition.

On her first day in the old house, as Jenna lay in bed, she heard faint scratching – like nails brushing against fabric. Soft, groaning murmurs escaped the walls, but she convinced herself it was just the house settling in. She fell asleep, to the faint, almost rhythmic scratching.

The next day, she noticed patches of peeling wallpaper, which hid strange symbols underneath – crudely painted, and faint, but there. Echoing in the back of her mind was her grandmother’s voice: “Never peel back the wallpaper. That’s the only thing keeping them quiet.” She brushed off her grandmother’s heeding as another of her ramblings. But the symbols haunted her. As the days passed by, the scratches, the whispers – they grew louder, invading every pocket of silence.

One evening, she gathered all her courage and peeled back the wallpaper. Like the exhale of something, old, hidden, and long-forgotten, a gust of cold air rushed from the wall. And that night, the whispers grew sharper and more sinister.

“Let us out.”

She tossed and turned all night, but the voices burrowed deep into her mind, relentless. Days turned to nights with shadows stretching and curling across her walls like skeletal fingers. The symbols on the wall seemed to pulse, glowing faintly in the dark. She swore she saw eyes, watching her in the dark, their gaze heavy with hunger.

One night, the whispers turned to wails. They echoed through the house, filling every corner, seeping into her bones. Jenna couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move – frozen as she felt icy fingers brush her cheek. And then she saw it.

In the mirror across the room, a looming figure, faceless, cloaked in shadows, stood behind her. Its hollow eyes stared, empty yet knowing. It reached out a hand covered in the symbols, like those she found on the walls as if they were part of his flesh. Jennas’s scream was swallowed by the darkness as the figure leaned in close, with whispering voices, until finally there was just one voice – a slow groan whispering, “You let us out.”

The next morning, the house stood still. Silent. Empty. The neighbours whispered, as they always had, about the girl who came and vanished. As they had done many times before, they simply shook their heads, and sighed, saying, “The house never truly empties.”

And through the cracks in the wallpaper, the faint rhythm of scratching began again.

Penned By:

Rtr. Savini Yasanayake

Editorial Committee Member 24-25