The Plaster Man

In the autumn of 2011, I moved into a cramped studio apartment in a converted Victorian house, hoping a change of scenery would ease the grief that had settled in my bones after my brother Ivo’s suicide. I had inherited a small, wiry terrier named Pip, who was more attuned to my moods than any human. He slept curled in the crook of my arm, his heartbeat a steady pulse that anchored me to the present. The apartment was cheap because the landlord warned it was ‘old and temperamental,’ but I needed solitude, and the peeling wallpaper and creaking floorboards felt like a fitting backdrop to my mourning.

One night, I woke to a peculiar stillness. The usual hum of the city had faded, and the air was thick and cold. Pip was rigid in my arms, his ears flat against his head, a low growl vibrating in his throat. I followed his gaze to the corner of the room, where a faint silhouette seemed to be imprinted on the wall—not a shadow, but a pale, raised outline, like dried plaster beneath the peeling paint. It was vaguely humanoid, about my height, with arms pressed against its sides. I blinked, and it was gone. Pip relaxed, but he kept his eyes on that corner for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I noticed a patch of wallpaper in that corner was bubbling and flaking, revealing a smooth, white surface beneath. I touched it, and my fingers came away with a fine dust that smelled of damp and something metallic, like old pennies. I tried to scrape it off, but it was hard as stone. I dismissed it as a quirk of the old building, but Pip refused to go near that corner, and he would whine every time I passed it.

A week later, I woke again to Pip’s frantic barking. The silhouette was back, more defined now, and it seemed to be leaning towards the bed. The plaster outline was no longer flat—it now had depth, as if a body were pressing against the wall from the inside. I could see the impression of a shoulder, an arm, a face in profile. Panic seized me, and I grabbed Pip and stumbled into the kitchen, where I spent the rest of the night on a chair, staring at the hallway. I called the landlord the next day, but he dismissed my concerns, saying that old walls often shift and create strange patterns. He offered to repaint, but I refused, fearing that whatever this was would only be angered.

That evening, as I tried to fall asleep, Pip began to whimper and paw at my chest. I looked at the wall, and the figure was now leaning so far forward that its head seemed to protrude from the surface, a vague, eyeless face inches from the bed. I felt a whisper of cold breath on my cheek, and a faint, musty odor filled the room, like the air from a long-sealed tomb. In a voice that was both papery and familiar, it said, ‘You should not have come here.’

I was paralyzed, unable to move or speak. Pip growled, a fierce sound I had never heard from him, and the figure receded slightly. The voice again, softer now, almost apologetic: ‘I am sorry, but I need a companion. The last one left.’ With a jolt, I realized this was not a ghost of my brother, but something else—an entity that fed on the loneliness of the living, drawing them into its plaster prison. My grief had made me a beacon, and it had been waiting for me.

I fled that apartment the next day, leaving most of my belongings behind, and booking a motel room for Pip and me. I never returned, and I never told anyone, for who would believe me? But sometimes, when I lie in bed, Pip asleep in my arms, I catch a faint smell of damp plaster. And I swear I can hear a muffled voice, calling out from somewhere deep in the walls, asking me to come back, to stay with it, to fill the space that I left behind.