The Persistent Slap

I am twenty now, but my summers still drag me back to that flat in the old district of Porto, where the river fog coils like a living thing around the granite buildings. The building itself is not ancient—it was raised in the 1950s, a grim-faced block of seven storeys, and my family occupies the sixth floor, or the seventh if you count the mezzanine as the Americans do. I come back each July because my closest friends are here, and because the flat is free, despite the unease that settles on my shoulders the moment I step into the lift.

I remember a night from my childhood, when I was nine or ten. I had gone to bed early, exhausted from a day of playing in the Ribeira. At some ungodly hour, I woke to a strange heaviness pinning me to the mattress. I tried to lift my arm, but it was as if it were made of stone. Then, a sharp sting blossomed on my left cheek, followed by another on the right. Something was slapping me—not hard enough to hurt beyond a sting—but with a rhythm, as if it were disciplining me. I couldn’t cry out, couldn’t move. The slapping went on for what felt like minutes, then stopped. When I finally regained control, I lay trembling until dawn. That morning, in the bathroom mirror, I saw two bright red handprints glowing on my cheeks, as if I had been slapped in a fever dream.

Other incidents have followed over the years, though none as physical. Once, in my teens, I was reading in the living room when all the photographs on the wall swung outward, as if caught by a gust of wind, even though the windows were shut. Another time, I heard the sound of a child’s laughter coming from the empty bedroom next to mine, but when I opened the door, it was silent and cold. My mother, who is a practical woman, blames the old plumbing and the wind. She refuses to discuss the flat’s history, except to say that the building was erected on the site of an old tannery, where workers once died in a fire.

This summer, I arrived earlier than usual, alone. My mother was visiting her sister in the Algarve, and I had the place to myself. The first night, I went to bed late, after a long dinner with friends. I fell asleep almost immediately, but woke at 3:17 AM—I remember the red numbers of the clock—to the same immobility. My arms and legs were useless, and a cold dread seeped into me. Then, the slapping began. Not on my face this time, but on my thighs, my arms, my stomach—everywhere. It was a constant, stinging barrage, like a hailstorm of hands. I tried to shout, but my voice was gone. After about a minute, it stopped, and I could move again. I snapped on the light, my skin prickling. Gleaming under the lamp, I saw faint red welts crisscrossing my forearms, as if I had been beaten with thin canes.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I decided to investigate. I asked an elderly neighbor, Dona Maria, who has lived on the ground floor since the building went up. She gave me a long, knowing look and said, ‘You should not keep waking it, child.’ I pressed her for more, and she told me a story that chilled me.

In the 1950s, the flat on the sixth floor—my flat—was occupied by a family with a daughter named Inês. She was a quiet girl, but she had a habit of wandering into the communal laundry room in the basement at odd hours, claiming she spoke to ‘the lady in the walls.’ Her parents, embarrassed and fearful, took her to a doctor, but nothing helped. One winter, the girl disappeared. A search of the building found nothing, but in the laundry room, there was a loose stone behind the boiler, and behind it, a narrow shaft leading down into the rubble of the old tannery. The police assumed she had fallen and been trapped, but her body was never found.

Dona Maria’s eyes were dim as she finished. ‘The mother went mad, and the father left. But the girl’s spirit, if it was her, stayed. She doesn’t mean harm, but she is lonely. The slapping is her way of getting attention. She is trying to wake you up, to play.’

I returned to the flat that evening, my mind churning. I tried to ignore the cold spots in the hallway. I watched a film, but my eyes kept drifting to the wall where the photographs had swung. At 3:17 AM again, I was in bed, and the slapping returned. This time, I forced myself to stay calm, to focus. The slaps were rhythmic, almost like a beating heart. I concentrated on my right cheek, where the first slap had landed decades ago. In my mind, I whispered, ‘I hear you.’

The slapping stopped. But then, a new sound began: a soft, childish humming from the other side of the wall. It was a melody I had never heard, yet it felt familiar. I got up, my legs unsteady, and pressed my ear to the wall. The humming grew louder, and I felt a draft. I followed the draft to the wardrobe in the corner, which I had never fully opened. It was heavy, and when I pulled it aside, I saw a crack in the plaster, just wide enough for a child’s hand. I shone a torch inside and saw a void, filled with dust and old newspapers. At the bottom, something glinted: a small, tarnished locket.

I reached in, my heart racing, and retrieved it. Inside was a faded photograph of a little girl with dark braids. The humming stopped. I felt a presence behind me, and I turned, expecting to see nothing. But for a split second, I saw a shape in the mirror—a small, translucent figure with her hand raised, as if to slap me. But her expression was not angry. It was pleading.

I have not slept since. I type this from a café by the river, the locket heavy in my pocket. Tonight, I will go back. The flat is empty, but I know she is waiting. Perhaps I will leave a bowl of milk, or a doll. I don’t know what will happen, but I cannot ignore her any longer. After all, she only wants attention, and I am the only one who has ever heard her.

I just hope that hearing her is enough.