The Client’s Wall

I never believed in the supernatural before we moved into the glass house on Ravencrest Road. It was a marvel of modern architecture, all sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a sheer cliff and a vast, dark forest. The view was the reason we signed the lease; we’d sit on the balcony for hours, watching the treetops sway and the fog roll in. Our first month was idyllic, the house humming with the quiet efficiency of new appliances and the distant sound of the wind.

Then, our golden retriever, Biscuit, began to change. Usually, she was a bouncing ball of fur, chasing her tail and begging for walks. But now, she would stop mid-play, her ears flattening, and stare at a specific point on the living room wall—a blank space between two large windows. It was a spot where the white paint seemed slightly darker, almost imperceptibly so. She’d sit there for what felt like an eternity, not moving, not blinking, even if I clapped my hands right next to her. I tried to coax her away with treats, but she only gave me a distant look, as if she was listening to something I couldn’t hear.

The first time I noticed the smells, I was alone. A faint, sickly-sweet odor, like decayed flowers mixed with old blood, wafted from the hallway. It was so strong that I gagged, but when I rushed to investigate, it vanished. It happened again a few days later, this time in the kitchen, accompanied by a cold draft that made the hairs on my arms stand up, even though the thermostat was set to a comfortable 72.

Then came the writing. One morning, I woke to find a series of small, precise X’s drawn in the condensation on the bathroom mirror. They were too perfect, too deliberate. I wiped them off, but they returned the next morning, and the next. No one else in the house admitted to doing it, and my partner Mark was as baffled as I was. The X’s were always in the upper left corner, as if someone was marking something.

The strange occurrences escalated. One evening, I was in the study when I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping coming from the attic. The house had a crawlspace, accessible only by a pull-down ladder in the ceiling. I never used it, and the landlord had mentioned that it was left unfinished. Curiosity getting the better of me, I pulled down the ladder and climbed up, flashlight in hand. The space was dusty and cold, with low beams and insulation. At the far end, I noticed a wooden crate that I hadn’t seen before. It was old, nailed shut, with a strange symbol carved into the lid—a spiral with a single eye at the center. I felt a chill as I traced the symbol, and a sudden urge to leave. I backed down the ladder and never went up again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been waiting for me to find it.

That night, I had a terrifying nightmare. I was in the house, but the proportions were wrong—the rooms were too large, the ceilings too high. I could hear a woman sobbing, and a man’s voice, low and angry, saying, ‘You ruined it. You ruined everything.’ I woke up in a cold sweat, and Biscuit was at the foot of the bed, trembling, her eyes fixed on the closet door. The door was slightly ajar, which I knew was impossible because I had closed it. I forced myself to get up, my heart pounding, and slammed it shut. But as I did, I saw a flash of pale skin and a dark eye in the gap, and then it was gone.

A few days later, I found the photographs. They were in a box in the back of a closet, hidden behind some old coats. They were Polaroids, faded and yellowed, showing a family in this very house, but they were all slightly off. In some, their faces were blurred, their mouths open as if screaming. In others, they were posed in front of the wall where Biscuit stared, and I could see a dark, amorphous shape clinging to the ceiling above them. On the back of one photo, someone had written: ‘The client is always right.’

I confronted the landlord, a nervous man named Mr. Henderson, who had always seemed uncomfortable whenever he visited. I asked him if anyone had ever died in the house. He paled, and stammered, ‘Why would you ask that?’ I told him about the occurrences, and he sighed, finally admitting that the house was built on land that was once a burial site. He said that a previous tenant, a woman named Eleanor, had become obsessed with the attic, claiming she could communicate with the dead. She had spent months trying to ‘cleanse’ the house, and then one day she vanished. Her family never filed a missing person’s report, saying she had a history of mental illness, but Mr. Henderson always believed she was still there, in the walls.

Hearing this, I decided we had to leave. But that night, as we packed, Biscuit started barking frantically at the attic ladder. Mark went to check, and when he pulled down the ladder, a thick, black ooze dripped from above, followed by a foul stench. He recoiled, and we heard a low, guttural growl from the attic. We grabbed Biscuit and ran out of the house, not stopping until we were in the car and driving away.

We never went back. We handed in our notice, losing our deposit, and found a new apartment in the city. But even now, months later, I sometimes see that eye in the dark. I’ve started to notice that in our new home, Biscuit sometimes sits in the corner of the living room, staring at a spot on the wall that is slightly darker, just like before. And last week, I found a small X drawn in the dust on a shelf, and I knew it was a message. The client is always right, and it seems they have followed us. I just hope we don’t end up like the previous tenants, because I can still hear that faint tapping at night, coming from above.