The Hollow Scratch

The old farmhouse on Cedar Hollow Road had stood since before the Civil War, its bones creaking with every gust of wind. I never minded the drafts or the occasional cold spot, but that autumn, the renovation turned our lives upside down. The upstairs bedrooms were being insulated, so I was bunking with my sisters, Mira and Juno, in Mira’s room at the end of the hall. The house was full of the smell of dust and old wood, and the constant rumble of the big machines had finally ceased for the night.

I lay on the edge of Mira’s queen bed, listening to the wind rattle the loose windowpanes. The power had gone out around nine, and we’d lit a few candles that had burned down to stubs. In the dark, the room seemed larger, the ceiling higher, and the shadows deeper. Mira and Juno had fallen asleep quickly, their breathing soft and even. I was halfway between waking and dreaming when I heard it: a rhythmic, scraping sound coming from the wall behind the headboard. It was like claws or a stick dragging across the siding, methodical, as if someone was digging a hole from the outside.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering. The sound stopped the instant I moved. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and turned it on, the bright screen cutting through the darkness. I aimed it at the window, expecting to see the maple tree’s branches scraping the glass. But the window was bare, and outside, the moonlit yard lay still. The digging had ceased, but the silence felt heavier now. I lay back down, pulling the covers to my chin, and closed my eyes. Just as my breathing steadied, the sound started again—a slow, deliberate scratch, scratch, scratch against the wall, moving from the headboard toward the corner of the room.

I sat up and listened, my skin prickling. The noise was not outside; it seemed to come from within the wall itself. I swung my legs out of bed and padded to the window, pressing my face to the cold glass. The yard was empty, the bare branches of the apple tree motionless. I checked the other window, too, and saw nothing but the dark outline of the barn. The scratching persisted, now from the floorboards near the door. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and swept the room, but the light revealed no cracks, no critters, nothing.

My sisters slept through it all, oblivious. I crawled back into bed, pulling the blanket over my head, but the sound followed, amplifying until it seemed to vibrate through the mattress. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. A deep silence fell, and in that silence, I heard a voice—low and muffled, like someone speaking through a thick wall. It was a single word, repeated: ‘Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.’

I froze, my blood turning to ice. The voice was coming from inside the wall, right behind Mira’s pillow. I shook Mira awake, but she groaned and rolled over. Juno stirred but didn’t wake. I tried to call out, but my throat was dry. The voice grew clearer, and I realized it was not pleading—it was demanding. And the scratching started again, but this time it was accompanied by a faint, rhythmic thumping, as if something was trying to break through from the other side.

I grabbed my phone and dialed my mother, but the call dropped. The lights in the room flickered—impossible, since the power was out. I stared at the wall, and in the dim, strobing light, I saw the wallpaper ripple, as if something was moving beneath it. The thumping grew louder, and the voice became a growl: ‘Let me in.’ I screamed for my sisters, and they finally woke, sitting up in confusion. The noise stopped abruptly, and the wall was still.

We sat in silence, hearts pounding, until a low laugh echoed from the corner of the room. We fled that night, piling into the car and driving to a motel. When we returned in the morning, the wall was untouched, but the room was cold, and on the floor by the bed, we found a small, hollow bone, buried in the dust that had been kicked up by the renovation. I never slept in that room again. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear the scratching from my new room on the other side of the house, always accompanied by that voice, always asking, always waiting.