The Hollow in the Wall

Before I get to the heart of what happened, I need to tell you about the little things. The odd things that piled up like dust in the corners of my room. A clock that ticked backwards for three days. My grandmother’s locket, which I never wore, appearing on my nightstand, its chain coiled like a snake. And the dreams—always the same—of a child with coal-black eyes, reaching for me from a crib made of bone. I would hand her to a figure that was all teeth and static, and it would laugh without a mouth. I woke up gasping every time, my ears ringing with that laughter.

It was the summer I turned fifteen, in the old farmhouse my family had moved to the year before. The house was a relic of a time when settlers believed in hidden rooms and hidden sins. My room was at the top of the staircase, its walls covered in a faded wallpaper of climbing roses that had begun to peel like old skin. There was a patch of wall behind my bed that always felt cold, even in July. I told myself it was the draft, but I never tried to find where it came from.

The nights were the worst. I had started sleeping with every blanket I owned piled over me, a cocoon of warmth and darkness that felt safer than the room itself. I would lie there, listening to the house settle, and I would feel eyes on me—heavy, patient, hungry. Sometimes I would hear breathing, slow and wet, as if something were standing over me and savoring my fear. A few times, I woke to find my books flying across the room, slamming against the walls like angry birds. My mother blamed the wind; my father blamed my imagination.

One night, the feeling was so strong that I couldn’t even pretend to be asleep. I was under my covers, my heart hammering, and I knew—absolutely knew—that something was next to my bed. I could hear its breath, feel its presence like a second gravity. I decided to play dead. I didn’t move, didn’t twitch, just waited. And then, I heard a whisper, not in my ears, but inside my head: ‘I see you.’

I stayed under those covers for what felt like an hour, until the breathing stopped and the presence receded. When I finally dared to peek out, the room was empty. But there was a small hole in the wallpaper, right where the cold patch was, as if something had pressed its face against it from the other side.

After that night, I became obsessed with that wall. I would press my ear against it and listen. Sometimes I heard a faint scratching, like mice, but it was too rhythmic to be mice. Other times, I heard a woman humming a lullaby I didn’t recognize. I started investigating the rest of the house, looking for any door or panel that might lead behind that wall. The attic was full of old trunks and furniture, all covered in a thick layer of dust. In one trunk, I found a photograph of a woman in a white dress, her face blanked out, and a man with a beard who looked like my great-grandfather. On the back of the photo was written: ‘For our little one, who never came.’

I began to have more dreams. The child in the crib was clearer now. She was pale, almost translucent, with veins visible under her skin. She would reach out to me and say in a voice like wind through dead leaves, ‘Help me.’

Then, one afternoon, I decided to pry at the wallpaper. I used a butter knife from the kitchen. The wallpaper crumbled like dry paper, revealing a wooden panel. The panel had a tiny door, the size of a child’s doll door, with a brass knob. The knob was warm. I turned it, and the door swung open to reveal a dark, cramped space. I crawled in without thinking.

Inside, it was like a small closet, but the walls were lined with old cloth, and there was a faint smell of milk and rot. On the floor, there was a child’s dress, yellowed with age, and a locket similar to the one that had appeared on my nightstand. I picked up the dress and held it to my chest. That’s when I felt a cold hand wrap around my ankle.

I looked down. A small, gray hand was emerging from the floorboards, gripping me with surprising strength. I tried to pull away, but it held fast. In the darkness, the child’s face materialized, not as a ghost, but as a hollow—a void where her features should have been. She spoke, and her voice came from everywhere and nowhere: ‘You brought me out. Now I can come in.’

I scrabbled backward out of that tiny door, but the hand followed, and the child crawled out after me, her body bending in ways that should have broken bones. I reached the door to my room and slammed it shut. I could hear her on the other side, scratching at the wood. Then, everything went silent.

Days passed. I refused to sleep in my room. I told my parents I was having nightmares. They didn’t believe me, but they let me sleep on the couch. Yet, I couldn’t escape her. I saw her in mirrors, in the corner of my vision. I heard her humming the same lullaby. And every night, I dreamed that I was in a white room, holding that baby girl. I knew I had to give her to the Devil—I could see him waiting, a tall figure with horns made of shadow. And I always screamed as I handed her over, feeling her tiny body leave my arms.

One night, I woke up to find myself back in my bed, under the covers. I felt a weight beside me, small and cold. My heart stopped. The covers were pulled down slowly, and I saw the child’s hollow face inches from mine. She reached out and touched my cheek. Her hand was ice. And then she whispered, ‘You will never be alone again.’

I don’t know how long I stayed in that room. Hours. Days. The door was closed, and I couldn’t open it. The window rattled, but I couldn’t reach it. I heard my parents calling my name, but it was distant, like they were underwater. And the child was always there, watching me with that void for a face. She never hurt me, but she never left. It was a slow, creeping madness.

Eventually, I found a way out. In the dream, I refused to hand her to the Devil. I held her tight, even as she bit and scratched me, even as the Devil screamed with a thousand voices. I woke up with scratches on my arms and a hole in the wall where the tiny door had been. The hole was sealed shut, as if it had never existed.

I left that house as soon as I could, and I’ve never returned. But sometimes, at night, I feel a cold patch on my wall, and I hear that lullaby coming from inside the plaster. And I know that the hollow in the wall is still waiting, for the next child who is willing to listen.