The Sound Behind the Wall

March 3, 2026

by Rodrick

2 min read

Story Premise 2 min read (241 words)

"We had to move after my mom lost her job. The only place we could afford was a worn-down cottage with peeling paint. My new bedroom was on the ground floor, with a strange little door in the corner that was nailed shut. The room always felt cold. At night, I would hear a soft […]"

We had to move after my mom lost her job. The only place we could afford was a worn-down cottage with peeling paint. My new bedroom was on the ground floor, with a strange little door in the corner that was nailed shut. The room always felt cold.

At night, I would hear a soft scratching sound from behind that door. I told my mom, but she said it was just the branches of a tree rubbing against the outside wall. I didn’t believe her. I asked my sister Clara to come listen. She pressed her ear to the wall and agreed with our mom. “It’s just the wind,” she said.

Frustrated, I yelled that she was wrong. We argued, and she pushed me. I stumbled back against the small door, and the old wood splintered and gave way. We shone a light inside, revealing a steep, narrow staircase descending into darkness.

Curious, we climbed down. At the bottom was a room filled with dusty old furniture covered in white sheets. As we stepped inside, the door above us slammed shut. One of the sheets suddenly billowed up, rushing toward us with a high, piercing shriek. We were terrified, scrambling back up the stairs as fast as we could.

We told our mom everything. She came down with a flashlight, looking skeptical. But as she reached for the handle of the broken door, it began to vibrate violently in its frame.

Related Horror Movies to Watch

The Witch

1980

Escalofrío

1970

Mga manugang ni Drakula

1960

Werewolves

2025

Leave a Comment Cancel reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.

The Lamplit Room

When I was nine, we moved into a house in the outskirts of a small town called Ashwick, known for its endless fog and the old mill that had been silent for decades. My parents bragged about the bargain price and the quiet street, but the moment I stepped through the front door, I felt […]

The Unwinding of the Loom

The old house sat on a bluff overlooking the churning, slate-grey sea, far from the manicured lawns of Burlingame. When Eleanor’s parents bought it, the salt-laced wind seemed to whisper secrets through the eaves, a mournful tune that the real estate agent conveniently overlooked. Even at ten years old, Eleanor felt a profound chill seep […]

The Uninvited Current

The day my parents signed the deed on that old Victorian in Ashford, Maine, I remember standing in the empty living room and telling my mother, “It’s so heavy in here.” She laughed, saying it was just the dust and the faded wallpaper, and that a fresh coat of paint would fix everything. But I […]

Shadows in the New Home

When I was a child, my parents bought a charming house in a quiet neighborhood. They were excited about the move, thrilled by the spacious yard and the friendly neighbors. I remember stepping inside for the first time and feeling a chill. “Why is it so cold in here?” I asked my dad. He smiled […]

The Porcelain Visitor

I was seven, spending the summer at my grandmother’s old farmhouse in the hills of Vermont. The house had been in our family for generations, and it was a creaky, sprawling structure with a musty attic that no one ever entered. My parents had sent me and my cousin Derek to stay with Grandma while […]

The Loom

The first time it happened, I thought it was the wind rattling the windowpane of my studio apartment in the old mill town of Gravesend. But the air was still, heavy with the scent of dust and dried lavender from the sachet my grandmother had given me. I lay on the futon, the thin blanket […]

The Pacing Below the Pines

I was eight when we moved to the old cottage at the edge of the pine woods. My parents had inherited it from a distant aunt, and they were thrilled to escape the city. I, on the other hand, had always been a city kid, and the silence of the countryside felt like a held […]

The Tenant in 3B

In the sweltering summer of 1995, my uncle Marcus rented a cramped one-bedroom in a decaying brownstone on the edge of Detroit’s Cass Corridor. The building had seen better decades: peeling paint, a stoop that sagged like a tired spine, and radiators that clanked even in July. The landlady, Mrs. Kovac, was a wiry woman […]

The Tea Leaves of Chittering Hollow

Every evening that autumn, as the fog rolled in from the cranberry bogs, my grandmother would set out two cups of tea—one for her, one for the guest we never saw. We had come to Chittering Hollow to escape the city’s noise, but the quiet here was its own kind of racket. My sister Elara, […]

The Locked Room of Room 7

The bed-and-breakfast was called Blackwood Manor, a crumbling Victorian relic perched on a cliff above the churning Atlantic. My room, number 7, was at the end of a dim, narrow hallway. The wallpaper was peeling, and the carpet smelled of dust and brine. The owner, Mrs. Hempstead, was a skeletal woman with a smile that […]

The Frequency Weaver

During my junior year, I spent many afternoons at my friend Mira’s place, a creaky old farmhouse on the outskirts of a town that had more cornfields than people. Mira was quirky, always collecting oddities and talking about things that made others roll their eyes. That particular day, the air was thick with humidity, and […]

The Lantern in the Fog

This happened 25 years ago, in the autumn of 1999. I was staying at my aunt’s old farmhouse in the hills of Vermont, helping her sort through boxes in the attic. The house had no electricity, only oil lamps and candles, and the nights were dark and still. I woke up at 5:30 AM, not […]