The Hollow Wall Knocks

My name is Marcus, and every night I lift weights in my uncle’s old machine shed. He built it himself, out of reclaimed wood and tin, and it sits about fifty yards from the small house he left me when he passed. The walls are thin, almost papery, and they rattle with every gust of wind. But it’s not the wind that bothers me.

I play loud music from a battered Bluetooth speaker to keep my mind off the sounds. The creaks, the taps, the occasional scrape that seems to come from inside the walls. I tell myself it’s just the wood settling, or mice. But the sounds are persistent, almost rhythmic, like something trying to get my attention.

One night, as I was walking to the bench press, I felt a sharp shove between my shoulder blades. I stumbled forward, nearly dropping the barbell. I spun around, but the shed was empty. That was the first time. After that, the incidents became more frequent. Weights would shift on their own, the lights would flicker, and I’d hear a low, breathing sound close to my ear.

I’ve always believed in ghosts, but I’ve never experienced anything like this. Despite the fear, a part of me wanted to see it, to confront whatever was haunting the shed. It sounds foolish now, but I wanted proof, something tangible.

Last night, I was mid-set on the preacher curl when I heard a sharp knock on the window behind me. I put down the dumbbell and walked over. The glass was fogged with my breath, and when I wiped it clear, there was nothing outside but the dim glow of the yard light. As I turned to go back, another knock came from the other window. Quick, deliberate. I crossed the shed, but again, nothing.

My music had faded into a distant hum, and I realized the air had gone cold. A smell of old oil and dust filled my nose, and then I heard a sniffing sound, like something was scenting the air. It came from the corner where my uncle used to keep his tool chest. I took a step toward it, heart pounding. The sniffing grew louder, more frantic. And then, from the hollow wall beside me, a voice, rough like gravel, whispered my name.

I froze. The voice was unmistakable. It was my uncle’s. I stumbled back, knocking over a stack of plates. The clatter echoed, and the voice became a low growl. I ran. I didn’t stop until I was inside my house, slamming the door behind me, breath ragged.

But now, as I sit here, I hear it. A knock on my front door. Then on the kitchen window. Then on the bedroom wall. And it’s getting closer. The hollow walls of the shed were thin, but so are the walls of this house. And whatever is out there knows I’m listening.