The Static in the Walls

March 3, 2019, at 11:47 PM, my daughter Clara woke from a nightmare, her small body trembling as she crept into my room. I pulled back the covers, and she slipped in beside me, her fingers cold against my arm. To calm us both, I opened my tablet and we watched an old nature documentary, the soft drone of a narrator lulling us toward sleep.

Between 1 and 2 AM, the tablet emitted a sharp, electric crack and a blinding white flash, as if a surge of power had blasted through its tiny speaker. I sat up, my heart pounding, and reached for it, but before I could touch the screen, Clara cried out, clamping her hands over her ears. A piercing tone, like a wolf whistle, shot through the room, and she described a sudden popping sensation at the base of her skull. It was over in seconds, and she looked at me, dazed, then shrugged it off, too tired to dwell.

As I swung my legs out of bed to inspect the tablet, our dog, a usually calm retriever named Gus, began sprinting from room to room, his claws skittering on the hardwood, his tail tucked. He had been doing this for days, ever since we moved into this old farmhouse. I sighed, made a mental note to call the vet, and started to lie back down. But then, from the hallway, a faint, childlike giggle bubbled up, high and wrong, like a music box out of tune. I froze, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small, dark silhouette slip past the doorway, dissolving into the shadow of the hallway.

I grabbed the flashlight from my nightstand and stepped into the hallway, the beam cutting through the darkness. Nothing. Just the dusty floorboards and the ticking of a grandfather clock downstairs. I called out, ‘Hello?’ but the only answer was Gus’s whimpering from the kitchen. I checked on Clara, who had fallen back asleep, her face peaceful. I spent the rest of the night in the armchair by her bed, the tablet dark, the silence thick.

The next morning, I noticed a strange static on the TV in the living room, even though the cable was disconnected. And on the window sill, a child’s handprint, made of soot, stained the glass. I tried to scrub it off, but it wouldn’t budge. Clara came down, rubbing her eyes, and asked, ‘Mommy, why is the little girl in the wall humming my song?’ I turned to her, my blood turning cold, and saw that the hallway walls now bore the faint, dirty smudges of small fingers, trailing upward toward the ceiling, where a patch of plaster looked darker, almost wet, as if something was seeping through.

That night, I moved us to a motel in town, but the static followed us. It was in the air conditioner, in the radio, even in my phone when I tried to call a friend. And when Clara hummed a lullaby I’d never taught her, the lights flickered, and from the bathroom, I heard a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a child’s feet on the tiles, coming closer. I grabbed Clara, and we ran, but the motel room key card clattered to the floor, and when I looked back, I saw a small, sooty hand closing the door.

I don’t know where we are now. I’m writing this from a gas station bathroom, Clara asleep in the car outside. The static has started in my own ears, a low hiss that never stops, and in the mirror, I see a faint, dark shape looming behind me, its head tilted, as if listening to the song I’m about to hum. I think I finally understand what the popping in Clara’s head was: that was the moment the little girl in the wall pushed herself into our world, and she’s not leaving without a new playmate.