The Hollow Wall

I have always been drawn to the supernatural, collecting tales of ghosts and hauntings like some people collect stamps. I had my own brushes with the unexplained, but nothing prepared me for the night at my Aunt Hilda’s farmhouse. She was away visiting a neighbor, leaving my friend Megan and me alone in that creaking, drafty old place.

We decided to watch a horror movie to pass the time, a flick about a malevolent spirit that crawled out of the walls. The film was doing its job, making us jump at every shadow, when a distinct thud echoed from the kitchen. We exchanged nervous glances, but convinced ourselves it was just the house settling. Minutes later, another thud, louder this time. Curiosity and a sense of bravado propelled us into the kitchen. Everything seemed normal—the pots were hanging, the counters were clean, the floor was worn linoleum. We shrugged it off, telling ourselves the wind must have knocked something over.

Back in the living room, the movie resumed, but Megan suddenly stiffened. ‘Do you hear that?’ she whispered, her eyes wide. She pointed to the wall beside her. I listened, but heard nothing. I thought she was trying to spook me, playing into the film’s vibe. But Megan’s face was pale, her hands trembling. ‘It’s coming from inside the wall. Like… knocking.’

We shut off the movie, and the silence that followed was oppressive. Then I heard it—a faint, rhythmic tapping, as if something was trying to get out. We stood frozen, staring at the floral wallpaper. The tapping grew more insistent, and then, impossibly, the wallpaper bulged outward, as if pushed from within. A small tear appeared, and from the dark recess behind, a thin, papery voice whispered, ‘Let me out.’

We ran. We stumbled out the front door into the cold night air, not stopping until we reached the main road. When Aunt Hilda returned, we told her everything. She listened with a grim expression, then led us to the kitchen. She opened a cabinet I had never noticed before, revealing a narrow stairway descending into darkness. ‘That’s where the old well is,’ she said. ‘Blocked up years ago. Your great-uncle built this house on top of it.’

She took a lantern and we followed her down. At the bottom, behind a wooden slat, was a hollow space—and in that space, a small, skeletal hand, reaching out. Aunt Hilda sighed. ‘He’s been at it for years,’ she said. ‘My brother. He fell down the well as a child. We never found his body. He never left.’

We backed away, but the hand waved, as if beckoning. And from the darkness, that voice again, clearer now: ‘The house is mine. You’re all guests. And guests have to leave.’

We left that night, and I never returned. But sometimes, when the wind is just right, I hear knocking inside my own walls. And I wonder if he followed us.

I no longer seek out hauntings. I have one of my own.