The Pencil’s Scratch

The first time I heard it, I thought it was the radiator. A metallic, rhythmic click-clack, like a fingernail tapping a tin cup. It came from the direction of the shared bathroom, which was odd, because at 2:47 AM in the old Meridian Hall dormitory, the pipes usually moaned, not clicked. I was hunched over my drafting table, a half-finished engineering schematic under the cold glow of my desk lamp, and I had just reached for a fresh pencil when the sound returned.

I paused, the lead hovering over the vellum. The click-clack was steady, almost deliberate. I pulled out my earbuds, letting the silence of the building rush in. The sound stopped. I waited, counting my heartbeats. Nothing. I shook my head, blaming the ancient heating system, and resumed sketching the gear teeth. But as my pencil touched the paper, a different sound answered: a faint, rapid scratching, like a rat skittering inside the wall. But it wasn’t in the wall. It was coming from beneath my drafting table.

I pushed my chair back, the rubber feet squeaking on the linoleum. The scratching stopped. My heart thumped against my ribs. I bent down, peering into the dark space under the desk, expecting to see a forgotten pencil or a stray wire. Instead, I saw a small, crumpled piece of paper, not mine, that hadn’t been there before. I picked it up. It was a receipt from a diner that had closed down a decade ago, and on it, in shaky blue ink, was a single phrase: ‘Stop drawing the shape.’

I laughed nervously. A prank, probably. The floor had a few residents who liked to mess with newcomers. I crumpled the receipt and tossed it into the trash bin, then went back to my work. But as I rotated the schematic to draw a three-dimensional cross-section, the scratching started again, this time louder, and it seemed to be moving—across the ceiling, down the wall, and finally, right behind my chair. I spun around, my heart pounding. The room was empty. The door was still locked. On my drafting table, right beside my pencil, lay a new piece of paper. It was a rough sketch of a candle, with a single word beneath it: ‘Light.’

My mouth went dry. I was not in the mood for games. I grabbed the paper and tore it into pieces, then shoved the scraps into my pocket. I decided to take a break, make some tea in the communal kitchen down the hall. As I stepped out, the corridor lights flickered once, then steadied. The kitchen was empty, but when I went to fill my kettle, I saw something on the counter: a receipt from the same diner, with a new message: ‘He sees you through the glass.’ I dropped the kettle with a clatter, and the sound echoed down the empty hallway. I looked out the window, but saw only my own reflection, pale and wide-eyed.

I hurried back to my room, locking the door behind me. The latest note was still in my pocket, but I felt a compulsion to read it again. I pulled it out. The words had changed. Now it read: ‘He is inside the walls.’ I felt the hair on my neck prickle. I pressed my ear to the drywall, and that’s when I heard it again—the scratching, not on the surface, but within the wall itself, like a frantic pencil being dragged along the inner studs. It was following the outline of my room, moving toward the corner where I kept my supplies.

I grabbed a chair and positioned it under the small air vent near the ceiling. I climbed up and unscrewed the grate, expecting to find a mouse or a rat. Instead, I found a rolled-up piece of paper, stuffed inside the duct. I unrolled it. It was a map of the building, but not the current layout. It showed a long-sealed wing, with a single room marked in red. The word ‘Cellar’ was scrawled beneath it. And in the corner, a date that was 27 years ago to the day.

I knew I should have called someone, but my phone was dead, and the landline in the hall was broken. I was alone, except for the scratching that had now shifted to the other side of the room, right where the map indicated the cellar entrance would be. I remembered, from a campus tour, that the building had been built over an old sanatorium, and there were stories of a patient who had been trapped in the basement during a fire. They never found his body. They said he still wandered the tunnels, looking for a way out.

I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down and pried at the floorboard where the scratching was most intense. The board was loose. Beneath it was a black, gaping hole. And in the darkness, I saw a faint, yellowed light—like a candle flame. And I heard a voice, thin and reedy, but clear as a bell: ‘You’re finally here. I’ve been scratching for years. I want you to draw my door.’

My hand trembled. I felt the pencil in my pocket—the one I had used to draw the schematic. I took it out, still sharp, and I knew, with a dreadful certainty, that I was going to draw what he asked. I knelt by the hole, and I began to sketch a small, arched door on the floorboards, right above the opening. As I finished the final line, the candle flame below extinguished, and the floor beneath me gave way. I fell into darkness, onto cold, damp concrete. When I looked up, I saw a shape moving toward me, a blackened figure with a pencil in its hand, and it said, ‘Now, let’s finish your portrait.’

I woke up hours later, on my bed, my clothes soaked in sweat. My drafting table was covered in the same yellowed receipts, all bearing the same phrase: ‘He is waiting.’ I was alone, but I could hear the scratching again—not from the walls, but from inside my head, as if a pencil was tracing the contours of my own skull. I haven’t drawn a single line since. I don’t know how long I can keep him out. But the receipts keep appearing, and the scratching keeps getting closer. And one day, I know I will be the one to open the door.