The Rhythm in the Walls

When I first leased the apartment on Barlowe Street, the landlord warned me about the neighbors. ‘Thin walls,’ he said, tapping the plaster with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘You’ll hear things. Slippers, TVs, maybe a dog.’ He failed to mention the pounding. It started the very first night, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump from the wall behind my bed, like a fist wrapped in cloth. I tried to ignore it, burying my head under a pillow, but by the third night, I was convinced it was the ghost of a boxer or a disgruntled plumber. Still, I let it be. It was just a sound, after all, and I had bigger problems, like the drawers in my kitchen that slid open on their own, or the shadow that darted down the hallway when I turned too fast. And if I ever heard a scream or a sob from the other rooms, there was always a low chuckle that followed, as if the building itself was laughing at my attempts to find peace.

I tried to rationalize. Maybe it was the neighbors, a couple with a violent hobby. But when I knocked on their door, a pale woman with hollow eyes answered. ‘We hear it too,’ she said, and shut the door. The cramped apartment began to feel like a skin stretched too tight, and I started to lose sleep. So I did what any reasonable person would do: I found a cleansing ritual online, lit some sage, and chanted a half-remembered incantation to send any lingering spirits on their way. It didn’t work. The pounding continued, louder, more insistent, and now it seemed to sync with my heartbeat. I began to notice a heaviness in the air around the walk-in closet in the bedroom, the very wall where the thumping originated. Friends who visited would recoil from that closet, muttering about a ‘presence’ they couldn’t explain. I dismissed it. I had other things on my mind, because every night I started to have vivid, graphic dreams, dreams so intense that I would wake up breathless and shuddering, my body tingling in the aftermath. I didn’t mind, actually. It was better than the nightmares I used to have.

One afternoon, a man in a patched tweed coat knocked on my door, introducing himself as a paranormal investigator. His name was Elias. He had a gaunt face and a pendulous silver cross that swung as he walked, and he immediately Zeroed in on the closet. ‘There’s an entity there,’ he said, his voice gravelly. ‘But it’s not the only one.’ He spent an hour walking through the rooms, holding a small brass instrument that whined like a mosquito. Finally, he sat me down, his pale eyes serious. ‘You are being visited by an incubus,’ he said. ‘It’s been raping you in your sleep.’ My cheeks burned. ‘Don’t be absurd,’ I said. ‘I’m just having good dreams.’ He shook his head. ‘This is a parasitic spirit, and it’s under the control of a malevolent witch. She’s using it to harvest your psychic abilities and feed on your vitality.’ He gestured to the closet. ‘That pounding? It’s the incubus trying to break through. It’s almost strong enough.’ I stared at him, my mind reeling. I was psychic, yes, but I had begged the Gods and Goddesses to take away my sight, and they had. I hadn’t seen the dead in years. Why would anyone want a stale gift?

That night, the pounding was deafening, a furious rhythm that rattled the pictures on the walls. I lay in bed, rigid, and for the first time, I was afraid. The air in the room grew cold, and I smelled something like burnt honey and sulfur. A shape materialized at the foot of the bed—tall, shadowy, with glinting eyes. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. It crawled over me, a weight like a collapsing bear, and I felt a violation so profound it was beyond physical. It was the theft of something inside me, a vacuum in my soul. I passed out.

When I woke, the room was silent, and the pounding had stopped. On the wall above my bed, carved into the plaster, was a message in crude letters: ‘SHE WANTS IT ALL.’ I stumbled out of bed, shaking, and called Elias. He arrived within an hour, and when he saw the writing, his face drained. ‘It’s finished,’ he whispered. ‘The witch has what she needs. The incubus has served its purpose.’ He looked at me with pity. ‘You’re an empty vessel now. The abilities you wished away were the only thing keeping it at bay. She’s taken the last of it.’ I collapsed to my knees, and he knelt beside me, speaking of protections and counter-spells, but all I could hear was the silence in my head, the absence of the pounding that had once annoyed me, and the hollow certainty that something far worse had taken its place. I looked down at my hands, and for a fleeting second, I saw right through them, saw the floorboards beneath, and I knew that in trading my sight for peace, I had only granted the witch a stronger foothold. The silence was not a release; it was the calm before the final knock.