The Hollow in the Wall

I never liked the spare room at the end of the hall. It was always cold, even in summer, and the door always seemed to be ajar, no matter how many times I closed it. When I was nine, my family moved into that old house on Bramblewick Lane, and from the start, I knew something was off about that room. But it wasn’t until that October afternoon, when I came home from school to find the door wide open, that I truly understood the horror that lurked within.

My mother had a habit of using that room for storage, stacking old boxes and forgotten furniture against the walls. I assumed she’d been in there earlier, looking for something. I walked to the door to shut it, as I always did, but as I reached for the knob, I noticed a small, dark crack at the base of the far wall. I’d never seen it before, a hairline fracture in the plaster, barely visible. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped inside.

The room smelled of dust and decay. My footsteps echoed on the bare wooden floor. I knelt by the crack and peered into it, but all I saw was darkness. Then, without warning, the door slammed shut behind me, and I heard the click of the lock. I rushed to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I was trapped.

I pounded on the wood, screaming for my mother, but the house was eerily silent. I turned back to the crack, and now it was wider, big enough for me to slide my hand through. A cold draft issued from it, carrying a faint, musty odor, like something long dead. I recoiled, but the draft seemed to pull me closer. I remember thinking, ‘This is silly. The door must have gotten stuck. Mom will find me soon.’ But then I heard it, a scrabbling sound from within the wall, like claws on plaster.

I backed away, my heart thumping. The scrabbling grew louder, more frantic, and the crack began to widen further, bits of plaster crumbling to the floor. I watched in terror as a small, pale hand emerged from the gap, followed by a thin, gray arm. It groped along the floor, searching. I screamed and ran to the other side of the room, but the door was still locked. The hand disappeared back into the wall, and for a moment, there was silence.

Then the wall bulged, as if something was pushing against it from inside. The crack split open into a gaping hole, and a figure started to squeeze out. It was humanoid but wrong, with elongated limbs and a face that was a blank, featureless mask. It rose to its full height, towering over me, and let out a sound like the creaking of old floorboards.

I backed into a corner, crying, as it took a step toward me. But then, just as it reached out a spindly hand, my mother’s voice called from downstairs, ‘Emily! Are you up there?’ The creature froze. It tilted its head, as if listening, and then, slowly, it began to retreat back into the hole. But as it did, it turned and fixed me with a gaze from eyes that were not there, and I felt its intent, a promise that it would return.

The door unlocked with a click. I stumbled out, slamming it behind me, and ran downstairs to my mother, who looked at me with concern. ‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ she said. I tried to tell her what I’d seen, but she just smiled and said, ‘It’s an old house. It creaks and groans.’ She didn’t believe me.

After that day, I avoided the spare room. I never even looked at its door. But I knew the creature was still there, waiting. I could feel its presence when I walked past. My parents never noticed anything wrong, but I started carrying a small penknife in my pocket, just in case.

A week later, my father announced he was going to turn the spare room into a study. He planned to knock down the far wall to expand the room. I begged him not to, but he laughed and called me a ‘silly girl.’ The next day, as he began to tear away the plaster, he uncovered a hollow space between the studs. Inside, he found a bundle of old cloth and a child’s toy, a battered doll with button eyes. He brought it to me, thinking I’d like it. But when I touched the doll, I felt a surge of cold, and in my mind, I heard a voice: ‘You left me here.’

I dropped the doll and ran. My father shrugged and tossed it in the trash. But that night, I woke to a sound from the spare room, a rhythmic tapping, like fingernails on glass. I knew it was the creature, calling to me. I pressed my hands to my ears, but the tapping grew louder, synchronized with my heartbeat. I crawled out of bed and slowly made my way down the hall, drawn against my will.

The door to the spare room was open a crack, and I saw a faint light within. I pushed it open and saw the hole in the wall had grown, twisting like a mouth. From its depths, the creature emerged, but now it looked more solid, more detailed. It had a face now, but it was my face, contorted in a silent scream. It pointed at me, and its finger elongated, reaching out to touch my forehead. I felt a jolt, and then I was inside the wall, in a dark, cramped space, surrounded by the sound of scratching.

I woke up on the floor of the spare room, the hole sealed as if it had never been. My parents found me and took me to a doctor, who said I had a ‘frightened imagination.’ But I knew the truth. That thing had marked me. It wanted me.

As the years passed, I tried to forget, but the tapping never fully stopped. Sometimes, when the house was quiet, I would hear it from behind my bedroom wall, a steady rhythm, keeping time with my heart. I never told anyone, not even my husband, when I got married and moved away. But when I had a daughter of my own, I saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at the wall at the end of the hall, and I knew the hollow had found a new victim.

I’ve come back to that house now, after all these years, with my daughter and a sledgehammer. I’m going to expose that hollow, to face what’s in it, and end this nightmare. But as I stand before the spare room door, I hear the tapping again, and I realize the creature has been waiting for me all along. It lured me back, and now, I’m the one who will be trapped in the wall, to keep the hollow fed, until another child comes to take my place.