The Pillar of Night

I’m an eighteen-year-old guy from the Yukon, and I consider myself pretty down-to-earth, though I’ve always had a restless imagination. My story starts in a place called the Alder Creek Trailer Park, a small cluster of rusting mobile homes huddled at the edge of a birch forest. We lived there from the time I was four until I was ten. I’ve got plenty of tales from that place, but the one that sticks with me the most happened when I was six.

I remember it was a sweltering summer night. The trailer was stuffy, so my parents had left the window in my room open a crack, letting in the buzz of mosquitoes and the distant hum of the highway. I shared a room with my younger brother, but he was asleep in the bottom bunk, snoring softly. I was on top, lying on my back, staring at the cheap fiberboard ceiling with its water stains that looked like continents. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, I was wide awake, my heart pounding for no reason.

The room was pitch black, except for a faint silver glow from the moon filtering through the blinds. My eyes adjusted, and I could make out the shape of the closet door, the toy box, the curtains swaying slightly. And then I felt it: a pulling sensation, like an invisible hand tugging at my chest, urging me to turn my head to the right. It wasn’t forceful, just insistent. I resisted at first, because something felt wrong, but the pull grew stronger, and I finally turned.

The wall was bare, except for a small crack in the paneling that I’d always thought looked like a lightning bolt. But now, in the gloom, I saw something else: a dark stain spreading from the crack, like a shadow leaking out. I blinked, and it was gone. Then the whispering started. It wasn’t words, but a hiss, like steam escaping from a pipe, and it seemed to come from directly behind the wall. I lay frozen, listening, and the hiss began to pattern, almost like it was speaking in a language I couldn’t understand, but with a rhythm that felt like it was trying to say my name.

I wanted to call out to my parents, but my voice was gone. The pulling sensation returned, stronger now, and I felt myself being compelled to lean closer to the wall. My body moved against my will, inch by inch, until my nose was almost touching the paneling. The hissing grew louder, and the wall began to bulge outward, as if something was pressing from the other side. I could see the outline of a face pressing against the wood, featureless except for two deep hollows where eyes should be.

Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The pressure released, and I fell back onto my pillow. The hissing faded into silence. I lay there trembling, convinced I had imagined it, but then I noticed the crack in the paneling was larger than before, and there was a faint, foul odor, like damp earth and decay. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told my mom about it, but she just said I had a fever dream and gave me some juice. I tried to forget it, but over the next few weeks, I noticed the crack in the wall was growing, and the whispers would return every time I was alone in the room. Eventually, I started sleeping with a flashlight, and I’d shine it at the wall until I fell into an exhausted sleep.

One night, I woke to find myself standing in the middle of the room, facing the wall. My body had carried me there without my knowledge. The wall was now covered in a dark, weeping stain, and the whispering was so loud it filled my head. I remember the words ‘let me in’ over and over, but they were in a language that sounded ancient, heavy. I felt a pressure against my mind, like a grinding weight, and I fought with every ounce of strength I had.

Just then, my brother stirred below, and the spell broke. I screamed, and my parents rushed in, turning on the lights. The wall looked normal again, except for the crack, which had widened into a small hole, dark as pitch. My parents decided to move after that night. They never explained why, but I think they knew something was off.

We moved to the city, and I never saw the trailer again. But sometimes, when I’m lying in bed at night, I feel that same tugging sensation, and I turn my head to see if the wall is still there, waiting. I’ve learned to keep my back to the window and never look too long at any dark corner, because I’m convinced that thing followed us, or that it found another way to reach me.

That’s why I’m writing this now, as a warning. If you ever feel an inexplicable urge to look at a wall, a wall that seems to breathe and whisper, don’t. Keep your eyes forward, get out of that place, and never look back.