The Hollow Wall

I know what they say about the old lighthouse on Wraith Point: that it’s just rust and rot, that the stories are fodder for tourists. But I know better. I’ve lived with the hollow wall since I was five, when my family moved from the city to that isolated stretch of coast.

My father, a marine biologist, had taken a post studying the dying reef. He thought the isolation would be good for us, especially for my mother, who had been struggling with anxiety. The lighthouse keeper’s cottage, with its thick stone walls and round rooms, felt like a fortress against the world. But there was one room, at the top of the spiral stairs, that was always cold. We used it for storage, but I would often find my father standing there, staring at the curved wall that faced the sea, as if listening.

One night, I woke to a sound like a heartbeat, slow and heavy, coming from that room. I crept up the stairs and found my father with his ear pressed to the wall. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered. ‘It’s just the waves,’ I said, but his eyes were wide and unblinking. He started leaving the cottage at odd hours, walking to the shore and staring at the water. My mother began to argue with him, her voice sharp with fear. Then one morning, he was gone. His boat was still there, but he was nowhere. The authorities searched for weeks, but they found nothing, not even his coat. My mother said he left because of the stress, but I knew she believed it was the wall.

We stayed. That’s what you do, I suppose. My mother took to drinking to calm her nerves. She would sit in the parlor, facing the fireplace, muttering to herself. At first, I thought she was talking to her dead, but then I caught a name: ‘Caraway.’ I asked her who Caraway was, and she just stared at the fire for a long time before saying, ‘No one. Just a name from a book.’

But I started hearing the name too, whispered from the wall when I pressed my ear to it. And the heartbeat returned, louder now, echoing through the cottage at night. I began to have dreams of a woman in a long gray dress, her face pale as foam, standing at the waterline, beckoning me. I would wake with the taste of salt in my mouth.

Then the wall began to change. The whitewash started to peel, revealing dark, wet-looking stone underneath. And one evening, I watched a thin line of green, like seaweed, crawl out from a crack and snake down to the floor. I tried to clean it, but it grew back overnight, forming a pattern that looked like a map.

My mother’s drinking got worse. She would pass out in her chair, and I would hear her speaking in a deep, rough voice that wasn’t hers. One night, I woke to find her standing at the top of the stairs, pointing at the door to the cold room. ‘She wants you to join her,’ she said. ‘She told me.’ Then she collapsed, and I had to drag her back to bed.

I decided to open the wall. I don’t know why, but I had to see what was behind it. I took a crowbar from the shed and, with shaking hands, I pried away the old planks that covered the stone. The stone behind them was slick with moisture, and there were strange symbols carved into it, worn by time. I placed my hand on the stone, and it was cold, colder than it should be.

That’s when I heard it clearly: a woman’s voice, singing a lullaby. It came from inside the wall. I pressed my ear to the cold stone, and the song grew louder. Then, the voice stopped, and a new one, harsh and grating, spoke: ‘Let me in.’

I backed away, terrified, and knocked over a pile of old boxes. A yellowed photograph fell out. It was a picture of a woman in a gray dress, standing on the shore, with a lighthouse behind her. On the back was written: ‘Caraway, 1887.’

I called the local historical society, and they told me that Caraway was the wife of a former lighthouse keeper. She had gone missing in a storm, and her body was never found. Legend had it that she still haunted the lighthouse, waiting for her husband to return.

Now I know why my father left. He knew. And my mother, she knew too, but she couldn’t leave. She was bound.

Tonight, I sit in the cold room, with the crowbar in my hand. The wall is breathing. I can feel air moving through the cracks. And I hear Caraway’s voice again, soft now, almost gentle: ‘You are the next keeper. Stay with me forever.’

I know what I must do. I must break the wall, or I must join her. But I am more afraid of what happens if I stay. I place the crowbar against the stone and push. It gives way, and I am enveloped by the smell of brine and rot. Then, I see her: a figure of gray, with eyes like drowning pools. She reaches out, and I take her cold hand.

Now I wait for the next family to move into the cottage. I wait for the new child to hear my heartbeat from the wall. This is not a warning. It is an invitation. The hollow wall will always find a new resident.