The Borrower in the Walls

The steady drip of the bathroom faucet was the only sound in the small dorm room, a rhythmic metronome that marked the passage of time. Kenji had gotten used to it, just as he’d gotten used to the peculiar reactions when he mentioned his room number, 217, in the old North Hall. Students would exchange glances, and the RA had simply said, ‘Keep your door locked at night, and maybe hang a crucifix.’ He’d laughed it off, chalking it up to old campus legends. That was before the first night.

The first incident was subtle. He woke to the sound of water running, the shower hissing as if someone had just stepped out. He blinked in the darkness, the bathroom door slightly ajar, a sliver of light from the hallway beyond. He got up, his feet cold on the linoleum, and found the showerhead dripping, the floor wet. He shook his head, chalking it up to a faulty valve. But the next night, the drawers in his bedroom slid open with a soft creak, one after another, like a hand checking their contents. He lay frozen, heart hammering, watching the dark shapes of his socks and underwear shift slightly. Then, as if a presence noticed his gaze, the drawers slammed shut, one by one, with a series of sharp cracks. The silence that followed was heavier than any noise.

Kenji tried to rationalize it. Old pipes, a draft, a prankster. But it escalated. The sounds grew bolder—footsteps pattering across the bathroom tile, the toilet flushing, the medicine cabinet swinging open and closed. One night, he heard a low, guttural humming from the bathroom, a melody that seemed to have no source, threading through the air like a living thing. He clutched the blanket, his grandmother’s words echoing in his mind: ‘Pray, child. Ask God to send it away.’ He whispered the Lord’s Prayer, his voice trembling, and the sounds ceased, dissipating like fog in morning light. He lay there, breathless, until dawn.

He confided in his friend, a philosophy major named Elara, who had a knack for the occult. She listened, her eyes wide, and then said, ‘That’s not a ghost. It’s something more physical. You said the walls are thick? That’s the key. It’s not coming from outside; it’s coming from inside the walls themselves.’ She gave him a small pouch of salt and iron filings, telling him to leave it by the bathroom door. Desperate, he placed it there that night, but when he woke, the pouch was on his pillow, torn open, the contents spilled into a neat line pointing toward the bathroom. The humming that night was louder, almost triumphant, and the shower ran for hours, the steam fogging the mirror until he could barely see his own reflection.

The breaking point came on a Friday night. He was lying in bed, unable to sleep, when the bathroom door swung open with a bang. The shower turned on, and he heard a splashing, as if something was writhing in the tub. He forced himself to get up, the floor cold beneath his feet, and peered inside. The room was empty, but the shower curtain was drawn, and behind it, the water sprayed against the tile. A dark shape pressed against the curtain from the inside, a formless, shifting mass that seemed to have no edges. It began to hum again, a low, grating sound that vibrated in his bones. He stumbled back, grabbed his phone, and called Elara, his voice shaking.

Elara arrived within minutes, her face pale. She listened at the door, then whispered, ‘It’s a borrower. A thing that lives in the walls, feeding on attention and fear. You’ve been acknowledging it, praying to it to leave, which only makes it stronger. You have to ignore it. Absolutely ignore it, no matter what.’ She pulled a small bottle of oil from her pocket, anointed his forehead, and told him to repeat a mantra she taught him: ‘I do not see it. I do not hear it. It is not here.’ She left, and Kenji sat on his bed, the bathroom noises growing louder, more frantic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, repeating the mantra over and over, even as the drawers opened and slammed, the shower spray hit the glass, and the humming rose to a shriek. He felt the floor vibrate, as if something was moving beneath him, and then, a new sound—a scratching, just behind the headboard. He kept his eyes closed, his lips moving soundlessly, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst. The scratching grew more frantic, then stopped. The water shut off. The drawers were still. A profound silence settled over the room.

He opened his eyes. The bathroom door was closed. The room was pristine. He lay there, trembling, until the first light of dawn seeped through the blinds. He never heard the sounds again. But sometimes, late at night, when he’s half-asleep, he feels a faint breath on the back of his neck, and he whispers the mantra to himself, and it fades. He tells no one, not even Elara, but he’s moved to a new dorm, a newer building with thin walls and no history. But the silence there feels almost too empty, and he wonders if the borrower found a new home, or if it’s simply waiting, biding its time, in the walls of his new room.