The Rotting Lullaby

It was the summer I turned thirteen, and my father had just moved us into the old Harlow house, a decrepit Victorian that smelled of damp earth and decay. My mother was in a sanatorium, her lungs eaten away by the black mold that infested our previous home, and my father, a man of rigid faith, threw himself into his work as a deacon, leaving me to roam the creaking halls alone. The house was a labyrinth of peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards, and the air was thick with the scent of mildew that clung to everything.

In my boredom and rebellion, I found a Ouija board tucked away in the attic, hidden among moth-eaten blankets and forgotten relics. My father had forbidden such ‘instruments of the devil’, and the very thought of his disapproval made my blood sing. So, one sweltering afternoon, I set up the board in the dining room, a space that connected to the kitchen and a small sitting area through a thick plaster wall with archways on either side and a high shelf where my mother’s neglected ferns withered. I placed a glass of water beside me, its condensation dripping onto the dusty table, and I began, alone, to ask for a presence.

The planchette started to move slowly, circling, then spelling out letters. I felt a thrill, a sickening excitement. I asked for a name, and it spelled ‘MARGARET’. I asked what she wanted, and the planchette slid to ‘OUT’. A chill ran down my spine, but I persisted. ‘Why can’t you get out?’ I asked. The planchette spelled ‘THE WALL’. I looked at the plaster barrier, and for the first time, I noticed the stains that spread across it like bruised fingers. I asked ‘What wall?’ and the planchette flew to ‘THE ONE I AM IN’.

I laughed nervously, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. I tried to lift the planchette, but it stuck to the board as if glued. A cold draft swept through the room, despite the sealed windows. I heard a faint humming, a soft lullaby, coming from the direction of the wall. I pressed my ear against the cold plaster, and the humming grew louder, more distinct. It was a woman’s voice, singing a melody I didn’t recognize, but felt strangely familiar. As I listened, I felt a dampness on my ear, and I pulled back to find a dark, slick stain on my skin, like the mold that had invaded our old house.

Over the next few days, the humming became a constant companion, always emanating from that wall. I began to see the mold creeping along the wallpaper, forming patterns that looked like faces, and the water in my glass would turn murky and thick overnight. My father, when he came home, dismissed my fears, muttering about my ‘imagination’ and ‘sinful distractions’. But I knew something was wrong. I started seeing a woman in the corner of my eye, always near that wall, her hair long and wet, her skin like mushrooms.

In desperation, I called on my friend, a girl named Elsie, who was known for her bravery. She came over, skeptical but curious. We set up the board again, and when we asked for Margaret, the planchette spelled ‘MY DAUGHTER’. I asked ‘Who is your daughter?’ and the planchette spelled ‘YOU’. Elsie gasped and pulled her hands away. The planchette continued to move on its own, pointing to letters: ‘MOTHER KNOWS’, then ‘SHE IS IN THE WALL’.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The humming was louder, and I could hear a faint scratching, like nails on plaster, coming from the dining room. I crept downstairs, a flashlight in trembling hand. The wall was covered in thick, black mold that pulsed as if breathing. I touched it, and it was warm and moist. I saw a small crack, and through it, a faint light. I pressed my eye to the crack and saw, in a hollow space within the wall, a shriveled form, a woman in a rotting dress, her mouth open in a silent scream. And beside her, a tiny, mummified baby.

The humming stopped. A voice, clear and cold, spoke from the crack: ‘She kept me here. For years. And now you’ve come to keep me company.’ I fell back, crawling away, but the mold had spread across the floor, trapping my hands and knees. I could feel it entering my lungs, and I began to cough, the taste of rot in my mouth. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the wall splitting open, and a glistening, black hand reaching out.

I woke up in a hospital bed, my father’s grim face above me. The doctors said I had a severe mold infection, and I had been found unconscious in the dining room. I was kept for weeks, treated with strong antibiotics. When I finally returned home, the house had been cleaned, the wall torn down. But I never stepped foot in that room again. I could still hear the humming, faint and mocking, from within the new wall they had built. And sometimes, at night, I would see a woman’s face in the plaster, her eyes ancient and knowing, and she would whisper, ‘You’ll be my daughter now.’