The Scratched Metal

The first time I noticed the scratches on my phone case, I thought I’d caught it on something at work. It was a thin, deep line, like the kind a key would make, but I never kept keys in the same pocket. I dismissed it, rubbed my thumb over the groove, and went about my day. But the next morning, there were three more, parallel and deliberate, as if something had been dragged across the surface with intent.

My name is Elise. I live in a creaky old apartment above a bakery that’s been closed for years. The stairway smells of stale flour and rust, and my windows face a brick wall that never sees sunlight. The only company I have is my cat, Marrow, a scrappy gray tabby who’s more dog than cat. She follows me from room to room, purring like a motor, but lately she’s taken to staring at the corner of my living room, her ears swiveling, her tail lashing. I’d follow her gaze, but there was nothing there, just the peeling wallpaper with its faded pattern of roses. Once, she hissed. I’d never heard her hiss before.

I chalked it up to rodents. But then I woke up with the cut on my palm. A clean slice, like a paper cut but deeper, across the life line. It stung for hours, and when I tried to remember how it happened, my mind drew a blank. I remembered falling asleep in my bed, the sheets tangled from a restless night. I remembered nothing else. I checked my phone, the one with the scratches, and found new ones, as if something had clawed at it while I slept. The screen was fine, but the edges were marred.

I called my mother. I know it sounds crazy, but I needed to tell someone. She listened in silence, then sighed in a way that made her sound ancient. ‘It’s the legacy,’ she said. ‘My mother-in-law used to do the same to your father. She’d leave marks on his things, his arms. She never meant harm, but she didn’t understand her own strength.’ I knew about her dreams—my grandmother’s ghost visiting her every night, trying to ‘help’ with the garden, to ‘fix’ the broken step. But this was different. This was tangible. This wasn’t a dream.

Marrow jumped onto my lap as I tried to digest this, her green eyes fixed on the corner again. She let out a low, guttural growl, something I’d never heard before. The hair on my arms stood up. And then, as if on cue, the lights flickered. The radio, which had been playing a soft static, turned to a clear, high-pitched hum. I looked down at my phone; a new scratch had appeared on its back, deep and white, as if etched by a needle. I hadn’t touched it.

That night, I didn’t want to sleep. I sat in the armchair, an old thing with horsehair stuffing, and watched the corner. Marrow curled at my feet, but her ears never stopped twitching. The clock on the wall, its hands frozen at 3:13 for years, suddenly began to tick. One, two, three—then stopped again. I held my breath. The air grew cold, like a draft from a grave. And then I saw it.

The wallpaper in the corner seemed to ripple, as if something moved behind it. I blinked, and it was still. But a faint, sourceless odor drifted to me, like mothballs and old lavender, my grandmother’s scent. I hadn’t thought of her in years. She’d been a cold woman who never smiled, who complained about the noise in the apartment when I was a kid. She died in this very building, alone, in that corner, where her chair used to be. Or so my mother said.

I must have dozed off, because a sound woke me. It was the sound of scratching, like nails on a chalkboard, but rougher, more organic. It came from the kitchen. I got up, my heart pounding, and inched toward the doorway. The moonlight from the single window cast a pale rectangle on the floor. In the center of it, a shape—a indistinct mass, darker than the shadows—was hunched over my phone, which I’d left on the counter. It was tracing one long finger over the surface, leaving behind a fresh, raw scratch.

I wanted to scream, but my voice was frozen. The shape turned its head, and I saw a face I remembered from old photographs: my grandmother, but younger, with a stern mouth and eyes like black pits. She smiled, a thin, brittle smile, and then she mimed wiping her brow, as if she’d been working hard. She pointed at the phone, then at me, then to the corner where the roses once bloomed. She mouthed something I couldn’t understand, but the intent was clear: she was helping me. She was fixing something. And she was never going to stop.

I stumbled back, knocking over a chair. Marrow yowled and bolted. The shape flickered, then was gone. The kitchen was still. The phone lay there, covered in a lattice of scratches, each one a mark of her presence. I knew then that this wasn’t going to be a one-time event. This was a haunting, and it was mine.

When I finally gathered the courage to look at the corner again, the wallpaper had peeled back, just a little, revealing a dark hole behind it. From that hole, I heard a faint, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat. Or like a claw drumming on wood. Waiting.

I don’t sleep much anymore. The scratches multiply. Marrow won’t enter the living room. And every night, I hear that scratching, gentle at first, then more insistent, as if she’s trying to get through. I think she’s trying to finish what she started. I just hope I’m not what she’s fixing.