The Static in the Walls

I first noticed something wrong with Marcus on a Tuesday in late October, when he called me at 2 AM, his voice trembling over the line. He’d just moved into a new apartment downtown, a cheap place above an old laundromat that never seemed to have any customers. He said he’d been hearing things, a low hum like static, but only in the walls. He laughed it off as old pipes, but I could hear the unease in his voice.

A week later, I stopped by his place for a visit. The apartment was sparse, just a few boxes and a mattress on the floor. He’d never been one for material things, but now he seemed almost haunted, his eyes darting to the walls every few seconds. He told me he’d started sleeping with the lights on, and he’d taken to avoiding the kitchen because the static was worst there. I tried to reassure him, but as I left, I noticed a strange scratch mark on the inside of his front door, like something had tried to claw its way out.

The calls grew more frequent. By mid-November, Marcus was barely sleeping. He claimed the static had become a voice, a low whisper that spoke in a language he didn’t recognize. He’d started recording the noises on his phone, but when he played them back, all I heard was white noise. He was growing paranoid, convinced that something was living in the walls, something that had followed him from his childhood home. He’d never mentioned that before, and when I pressed him, he grew vague and evasive.

I decided to stay the night one weekend, hoping to prove to him that it was all in his head. We sat up talking until late, and I had to admit, the apartment did have a strange vibe. The building was old, and the landlord was a creepy old man who lived on the ground floor. Marcus told me that the apartment had been vacant for years before he moved in, and the previous tenant had disappeared without a trace. As the night wore on, the hum started up, faint at first, then growing louder. Marcus grew agitated, his hands shaking as he clutched a small cross he’d started wearing. Then, the hum turned into a voice, a deep, guttural chanting that seemed to come from all directions. I couldn’t understand the words, but they made my skin crawl.

I tried to convince Marcus to leave, but he refused, saying he couldn’t afford to break his lease. I stayed the night, but I didn’t sleep. The chanting continued until dawn, and when I finally left, I saw that the scratch mark on his door had multiplied, now covering the entire surface with a pattern that looked almost like writing. I chalked it up to stress and paranoia and told myself to keep an eye on him.

Over the next few weeks, Marcus withdrew from everyone. He quit his job, stopped answering calls, and his Facebook feed became filled with religious rants and cryptic warnings about “the coming of the earth-children.” I started to worry he was having a mental breakdown, and I reached out to his older sister, Elena, who lived across the country. She told me that our friend had always been sensitive to “things,” but that his childhood had been troubled. She mentioned he had a twin brother who had died in a house fire when they were ten, and Marcus had always blamed himself.

That was the turning point. I drove over to his apartment, determined to force him to get help. The building seemed darker than before, and the laundromat on the ground floor was now boarded up. I knocked on his door, but no one answered. I used my spare key and pushed inside. The air was thick with the smell of decay, and the walls were covered in black runes, drawn in what looked like ash. In the center of the living room, Marcus was kneeling, his eyes black, his mouth moving in that same guttural chanting I had heard before. He didn’t respond when I called his name. Instead, he slowly turned his head, and I saw that his lips were stained with blood, and his teeth had been filed to points.

I stumbled back, and he stood up, crawling toward me on all fours, his joints cracking at unnatural angles. I ran, but as I reached the door, it slammed shut. The last thing I remember is the static becoming a roar, and feeling a cold grip on my ankle as the lights went out.

I woke up three days later in a hospital bed, with no memory of what happened. The police found me outside the apartment, covered in scratches and soot, but Marcus was gone. The building was condemned, and the landlord had vanished as well. I tried to find him, but it was as if he had never existed. And sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet, I hear a faint static from the walls. It’s probably just the wiring, but I can’t help but wonder if Marcus is still there, on the other side, waiting for me to listen closely enough.