The Peeling Wallpaper

My story really began seven years ago, when my husband, Marcus, and I bought our little house on Maple Street. It was a modest place, built in the 1920s, with creaky floors and a peculiar odor that lingered no matter how much we scrubbed. We loved it, though, and quickly set about making it ours. But not long after we moved in, strange things started happening.

Things would go missing, only to reappear in odd places. Marcus would sit in his favorite armchair, and suddenly he’d cry out, claiming something had scratched him. I’d look, and there would be fresh, angry red lines on his forearm, as if clawed by an invisible hand. We never saw anyone, but the house felt watched.

Determined to enjoy the summer evenings, we decided to tear out the dining room windows and install sliding glass doors, leading to a screened-in sunroom we had built at the back of the house. It was a lovely space, and we set it up with a TV and comfortable chairs, hoping to spend many quiet nights there.

One afternoon, while I was at work, Marcus called me, his voice frantic. ‘There’s an old lady in our backyard!’ he gasped. ‘She’s wearing old-fashioned nightclothes, like from a hundred years ago!’ He described her white gown and the way she seemed to float across the grass. But then, as he turned back toward the sliding door, she was inside the house, glaring at him with pure hatred because the door was open. He watched in horror as she tried to push the door closed. It moved about five inches before she vanished into thin air.

By the time I got home, Marcus was pale and shaking. He refused to go into the dining room alone. We searched the house, but found nothing. For weeks, we tried to rationalize it, but the feeling of being watched only grew stronger. Then, the wallpaper in the hallway began to peel.

It wasn’t just ordinary peeling; the patterns seemed to shift and form shapes. One night, I saw a face in the floral pattern, an old woman’s face, twisted in anger. I blinked, and it was gone. But the next day, the peeling had worsened, and there were scratch marks on the wall, as if something had tried to claw its way out.

We decided to investigate the history of the house. An elderly neighbor told us that a lonely widow, Mrs. Abernathy, had lived here in the 1940s. She was a recluse, rarely seen outside. One day, she vanished, and no one knew what happened to her. Some said she died in the house, but her body was never found. The neighbor lowered her voice, ‘They say she was cursed, that she was a witch.’ We dismissed it as superstition, but the strange occurrences continued.

Our sleep became disturbed. Every night, at 3:00 AM, we’d hear the sound of dragging footsteps in the hallway, followed by the faint rustle of fabric. Once, I woke to find Marcus standing over the bed, staring into the darkness, murmuring, ‘She’s here.’ He had deep scratches on his back, as if he’d been attacked in his sleep.

We tried to stay calm, but our marriage was fraying. The house was suffocating. We installed cameras, but they only captured static when things happened. We brought in a priest, who blessed the house and left, looking unnerved. But nothing helped.

Then came the night of the full moon. We were in the sunroom, watching the moon rise over the backyard. Marcus suddenly gripped my arm, pointing at the sliding door. A figure stood inside the dining room, silhouetted against the darkness. It was the old woman, and she was moving toward us. As she approached, the wallpaper began to peel in long strips, falling like dead skin. The smell of decay filled the air.

She stopped in front of the door, and for the first time, she spoke. Her voice was like a cold wind through dead leaves. ‘You took my sunroom,’ she hissed. ‘You took my light. Now I’ll take your warmth.’ The door slid open on its own, and she stepped through.

We ran. We stumbled through the house, but she was always there, just behind us. I saw Marcus’s face contort in terror as she touched his shoulder, and he crumpled to the ground. I screamed and grabbed a fire poker, swinging wildly. The poker passed through her as if she were smoke, but she recoiled, and for a moment, I saw a look of surprise on her face. I seized the chance, dragging Marcus out the front door.

We barely made it to the car. We drove to a motel and stayed there for a week. When we returned, we didn’t enter the house. We went directly to a realtor and sold it at a loss. The new owners, a young couple, moved in. We moved far away, but I never stopped thinking about her.

A year later, I received a call from the woman who had bought our house. Her voice was shaky. ‘I think you need to know,’ she said. ‘We found some old wallpaper in the attic. It’s peeling, and it… it moves.’ I felt a chill. ‘It formed a face,’ she continued, ‘an old woman’s face. And she’s angry.’ I could hear the fear in her voice, and I knew our nightmare was not over. I hung up without a word, and I’ve never looked back.

Now, seven years later, I still wake up sweating, seeing that face in my dreams. And sometimes, when I look at old floral patterns in stores, I think I see it move. I know she’s still out there, waiting. And sometimes, I wonder if she’s found us again.