The Hollow Tap

I’ve been renting the top floor of an old Victorian house for three years, but this is the first time I’ve felt the need to write any of this down. It happened just a couple of hours ago, around 10 PM. My sister-in-law, Jenna, and my brother, Mark, were staying for the weekend. The layout up here is simple: a narrow hallway from the stairs, my bedroom at the end, and across from the stairs, a small guest room where Mark and Jenna were sleeping. Our old cat, Mister Whiskers, was lounging on the windowsill in the hall.

I was in my room, half-watching a movie on my laptop, when I heard a rhythmic tapping coming from the wall behind my desk. It was soft at first, like a fingernail on wood, but steady. I assumed it was Mister Whiskers batting at something in the hallway, but then I heard Jenna’s voice from the guest room, sharp and annoyed: ‘Stop that!’ The tapping continued, and I heard her get up and cross the room. I heard her door open, and then her footsteps in the hall. After a moment, the tapping stopped, and I heard her mutter, ‘Stupid cat.’ I shrugged and went back to my movie.

About ten minutes later, I heard the tapping again, this time from the hallway right outside my door. It was faster, more insistent. I paused my movie and listened. Jenna’s voice came through the wall, now with an edge of fear: ‘Mark? Is that you?’ Mark had gone down to the garage to grab a tool, so I knew it wasn’t him. I got up and opened my door. The hallway was dim, lit only by the weak bulb in the sconce at the far end. Jenna was standing in her doorway, looking down the hall towards the stairs. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. I nodded. ‘It sounded like it was coming from the attic,’ she said, pointing to the pull-down stairs in the ceiling.

We both stared at the attic door. The tapping started again, now clearly coming from behind that door. It was a hollow, wooden knock, as if something were rapping on the inside of the attic door. I called out, ‘Hello? Anyone up there?’ The tapping stopped for a second, then resumed, more frantic. I looked at Jenna. Her face was pale. ‘Mark has the keys to the attic,’ she said. ‘He keeps them in the garage.’ I didn’t want to wait. I grabbed the ladder from the closet and positioned it under the attic door. I climbed up and pushed the door open, expecting a burst of dust and maybe a raccoon. But the attic was pitch black, and the tapping was coming from the far corner, where a stack of old trunks sat. I flicked on my phone’s flashlight and swung the beam across the room. The trunks were neatly stacked, but the top one was slightly ajar. As I watched, the lid lifted an inch and then dropped with a hollow thud, creating that exact knocking sound.

I felt a chill creep up my spine. I called down to Jenna, ‘There’s a trunk open up here.’ She climbed up to stand beside me. We both stared at the trunk. Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, I asked, ‘Did you open this?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been up here.’ We stood in silence, the only sound the heavy breathing of our own fear. Then the tapping started again, louder, from inside the trunk. It was as if something were trying to get out. I reached out to close the lid, but as my hand touched the wood, the tapping stopped. I slowly lifted the lid. Inside, there was nothing but a child’s wooden toy—a small, painted horse with a cracked leg. But on the bottom of the toy, scratched into the wood, were the words: ‘Let me out.’

I slammed the lid shut and scrambled down the ladder, pulling Jenna down with me. We stood in the hallway, our hearts pounding. The tapping stopped. Then, from the attic, we heard a soft, childlike voice say, ‘Thank you.’ I looked at Jenna. Her face was ashen. ‘We need to get Mark,’ she said. We fled down the stairs to find Mark. He was in the garage, exactly where we left him, but he was pale. ‘I heard knocking from the attic,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t find the keys.’ We told him what we saw. He went up with us, but when we opened the attic, the trunk was closed, and the toy horse was gone. The only thing we found was an old photograph, face down. When we turned it over, it was a picture of a little girl, standing in front of this very house. On the back, in faded ink, it read: ‘I like to play hide and seek.’

We haven’t slept. The tapping has started again, but now it’s coming from inside the walls. And every time I close my eyes, I see that little girl, hiding in the shadows of the attic, waiting for me to open the trunk one more time.