The Hollow Wall

I was twelve when I first noticed the scratching. It came from inside the wall behind my bed, a faint, rhythmic sound like a fingernail dragging across plaster. My stepfather, Marcus, said it was mice. But mice don’t scrape in a pattern. They don’t pause when you stop breathing. They don’t start again only when you start to move.

We lived in a converted lighthouse on the coast of Maine, a relic from the 1800s that had been split into three floors. My room was in the round tower, and the wall curved with the building’s shape. The sound seemed to follow the curve, as if something was circling me, just beyond the plaster. At night, I’d lie in bed, staring at the painted wall, waiting. Sometimes I’d see the faintest impression, a handprint that wasn’t mine, pressing against the wood from the other side.

Marcus was a marine biologist, and he’d moved us here to study the tide pools. He’d found the lighthouse online, cheap because of its condition. My real father had died when I was five, and my mother had remarried two years later. Marcus was kind, but distant, absorbed in his work. He didn’t believe in ghosts, or anything supernatural. He believed in science and rational explanations. So when the scratching began, he dismissed it. He even took a hammer to the wall, breaking a hole to show me the insulation and wiring. ‘See? Nothing but fiberglass. You’re hearing the wind against the tower.’

But I knew it wasn’t the wind. I felt it in my bones, a coldness that radiated from that wall, a presence that watched me from the darkness of the insulation. And I started to notice other things. My dog, a golden retriever named Biscuit, would growl at the wall, his hackles raised, his eyes fixed on a spot just above my bed. He’d bark, not playfully, but in a fearful, urgent way, as if warning me of danger. Then, one morning, I found my mother’s pearl necklace, the one she wore to fancy events, on the floor in the hallway, scattered as if someone had thrown it. Marcus said it must have fallen from her jewelry box, but I’d seen her put it back that morning.

The episodes grew. I’d wake up with my bookshelf rearranged, my clothes in a heap on the floor, my homework torn into pieces. It was as if a poltergeist was targeting my belongings. I told Marcus, and he laughed. ‘You’re a teenager, Ellie. You’re probably sleepwalking. Or it’s your imagination running wild.’ But his laugh sounded hollow. He started to sleep with his wallet under his pillow, and I saw him checking the locks on the door every night.

One night, the scratching was so loud it woke me up. I sat up in bed, and the sound stopped. In the silence, I heard a voice, low and raspy, like sandpaper on wood, but it was coming from the wall. ‘He knows.’ The words were clear, unmistakable. I froze, my heart pounding. Then the scratching resumed, faster and more frantic, as if whatever was in the wall was trying to get out. I screamed, and Marcus ran in, turning on the light. The scratching stopped. He looked at my face, pale, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, listening to the silence.

The next morning, Marcus told me we were moving. He said the lighthouse was too drafty, and he’d found a better place inland. But I knew the truth. He’d heard the voice too. He’d felt the presence. And he was scared. As we packed, I walked past the wall in my room, and I noticed a crack, thin and hairline, that hadn’t been there before. It ran from the floor to the ceiling, and it was slightly open. I peered inside, and in the dim light, I saw something glint. It was a gold coin, old and tarnished. I reached in, and my fingers brushed against something cold and smooth. A bone. I yanked my hand back, and the crack closed, as if the wall had snapped shut.

We moved to a small house in the suburbs, but it didn’t help. The scratching followed us. It came from the walls of my new bedroom, even though they were drywall and studs, not stone. The voice came back, but now I could understand it better. It spoke in fragments, whispering about ‘the hollow place’ and ‘the keeper of the threshold.’ My dog, Biscuit, started barking at the corner of my room, even when there was nothing there. And one night, I woke up to find my mother standing over my bed, holding a kitchen knife, her eyes blank. I screamed, and she blinked, as if waking from a dream, and dropped the knife. She said she’d been sleepwalking, but I didn’t believe her.

Marcus finally snapped. He admitted to me that he’d seen something in the lighthouse, a shadowy figure that peered out from the wall. He’d thought it was a hallucination, but now he wasn’t sure. He’d contacted a paranormal investigator, a woman named Dr. Ruth Langford, who specialized in ‘residual hauntings.’ She came to our house with equipment, and I showed her the spot where the scratching was worst. She placed a recorder on the floor, and over the next hour, we captured dozens of EVPs. They all said the same thing: ‘Thirteen. Thirteen. The thirteenth door.’

Dr. Langford looked at me, her face pale. ‘This is a threshold entity,’ she said. ‘It needs a door to pass through. And you’ve been serving as that door, Ellie, since you were young. It’s been feeding on your fear, growing stronger.’ She told us that the entity had attached itself to me, and that we needed to perform a ritual to seal the door. She gave us a box of salt and a set of iron nails, and instructed us to make a circle around my bed. That night, we did as she said. I lay in the center, quivering, as my mother and Marcus stood guard. For a while, the scratching stopped. I felt a moment of peace. Then, from inside the wall, I heard a child’s voice, soft and innocent: ‘Can you let me in? I’m lonely in here.’ I felt an overwhelming urge to tear down the wall, to free whatever was inside. I dug my fingernails into the plaster, but Marcus grabbed my hands. ‘No, Ellie! It’s a lie!’

But the voice grew more persuasive. ‘It’s been so long. I just want to play.’ I saw the wall begin to bulge, as if something was pushing from behind. The plaster cracked, and I could see a dark space, filled with a sickly green glow. And in that glow, I saw a figure, small and hunched, with long fingers and a hollow face. It smiled at me. I screamed, and Marcus threw the salt, scattering it on the floor. The figure hissed, and the pressure receded. The wall went solid again.

We moved again, this time to a friend’s house in the city, hoping to escape. But the entity followed, always just a wall away. I’ve learned to live with it, to meditate, to ignore the whispers. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that scratching, and I know it’s still there, waiting. The door is sealed, but it’s weakening. I am fifteen now, and I’ve grown stronger. But I fear that one day, the wall will crumble, and it will finally break through. And when it does, it won’t just be my soul it takes. It’ll be everyone I love. That’s why I’m writing this, in case someone else finds it. If you hear scratching in your walls, don’t ignore it. And whatever you do, don’t make a hole. Because what comes through will never leave.