The Stitched Wall

My name is Meera, and I grew up in a family that moved often with my father’s transferable job. We lived in many cities across India, and I lost the habit of attending church after we left our hometown. I never thought much about the supernatural until I moved to Kolkata for college in the autumn of 2010. I rented a room in an old building in a narrow lane off College Street, a place full of second-hand bookshops and printing presses, where the smell of old paper and ink hung in the air like a persistent ghost.

My room was on the third floor, the last one at the end of a dim corridor that always smelled of damp and mothballs. The landlady, a frail woman named Mrs. Bose, showed me the room with a strange warning: ‘The previous tenant left in a hurry. Said the wall kept whispering. But that was months ago, and I’ve had no trouble since.’ I dismissed her words as the ramblings of an old woman. I was more concerned about the rent and the proximity to my college.

The room itself was small but had a high ceiling, which made it feel cavernous. The walls were painted a sickly green, except for one area near the bed where a patch of wallpaper was peeling, revealing a darker, almost black surface beneath. I would eventually come to hate that patch, but at first, I simply covered it with a poster of a mountain landscape.

My cat, a stray I had adopted back in Pune, had died a year before I left. I missed her, and sometimes I thought I saw her out of the corner of my eye, a grey flash darting under the bed. But that was just my imagination, I told myself. Still, on my first night, I woke up to the distinct feeling of being watched. I switched on the light, but the room was empty. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock, which I was sure I had not set.

A few nights later, I was studying late, hunched over my textbooks, when I felt a cold draft on my neck. I turned, but the window was shut. That’s when I noticed the patch of wallpaper. The poster had fallen off, and the patch seemed to have grown slightly, its edges dark and ragged. I tried to press the paper back, but it wouldn’t stay. I left it, thinking the adhesive was old.

The incidents began to escalate. I would find my clothes moved from the closet to the bed, or my books rearranged on my desk. One night, I heard a faint scratching inside the wall, like nails on plaster. I pressed my ear to the wall, and the scratching stopped. Then, from inside, I heard my own voice, a whispery echo of my earlier thought: ‘It’s just a rat.’ I froze, but the voice did not repeat. I decided to ignore it, attributing it to stress and the creaks of an old building.

The breaking point came on a night when I had a terrible fever. I lay in bed, shivering, and in my half-delirium, I saw the patch of wallpaper bulge outward, as if something was pushing from within. The sound of ripping paper filled the room. I tried to scream, but my throat was raw. The bulge receded, and the ripping stopped. I managed to get up, grab my phone, and call Mrs. Bose, but she didn’t answer until morning. When she came, she brought a packet of salt and a censer of incense. She performed a small ritual, muttering prayers, then turned to me with a grave face. ‘The previous tenant, a girl, she had a fight with her boyfriend here. She was found dead in this room. They said she hung herself from that ceiling fan. But the autopsy said it was a broken neck, not strangulation. As if something had twisted her head clean off.’ I shuddered, and she continued, ‘That patch on the wall, it’s where she clawed at the wallpaper. She was trying to get out. But something pulled her back in.’

I wanted to leave, but all my money was tied up in the semester fees. So I stayed, arming myself with salt lines along the floor and a small crucifix I bought from a street vendor. But the presence seemed to grow bolder. The scratching in the wall became louder, more insistent. And one evening, as I sat eating my dinner, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I spun around, but there was no one. I tried to pray, but the words felt hollow. I realized that despite my upbringing, I had not truly believed in the supernatural. Now, I did.

I decided to investigate the previous tenant. I found her name in an old college register: Rina. Her address was in the same building. I spoke to the neighbors, but they were tight-lipped, muttering about ‘the poor girl’ and ‘that terrible man.’ Finally, a student who had lived below her told me a chilling tale: Rina had been a quiet, studious girl, but she had started dating a boy who was controlling and abusive. One night, they had a violent fight in her room. The next morning, Rina was found dead, and the boy was never seen again. The police ruled it a suicide, but the people in the building knew better. They said the wall, that particular patch, had always been ‘wrong’ even before Rina. The building was built over an old Sufi shrine, and the landlord had covered it up with concrete to avoid government entanglements.

That night, I armed myself with a small knife and placed the crucifix on the patch, hammering a nail through it. The wall seemed to absorb the metal. But that only seemed to enrage whatever was there. The next night, I woke to the sound of my bed shaking. The crucifix was on the floor, bent and blackened. The patch of wallpaper had torn open, revealing a hole just large enough for a hand to reach through. And from that hole, a low, guttural whisper emerged: ‘Let me in.’

I rushed to the door, but it was locked from the outside. I screamed for help, but my voice echoed in the empty corridor. I ran to the window, but it was nailed shut. I turned back to the hole, and I could see an eye peering through, a single, unblinking eye, the color of a dead fish. I grabbed the last of my salt and threw it at the hole. The eye withdrew, but the laughter that followed was worse—a high, feminine giggle that sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

I huddled in the corner, clutching the knife, as the scratching resumed. The wall began to bulge in multiple places, like something was trying to push through. I saw the outline of a face, pressing against the wallpaper, mouth open in a silent scream. Then the pressure stopped. The wall fell silent. I waited, trembling, until dawn.

The next morning, I finally managed to break out of the room by kicking the lock. I ran down the stairs, not stopping until I was out on the street, gasping for breath. I never went back for my belongings. I moved to a friend’s place, and later, I left Kolkata altogether. But even now, years later, I still feel that eye watching me. Sometimes, when I am alone in a quiet room, I hear a faint scratching from inside the walls, and I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that the stitched wall in that old room has found a new tenant, and it is waiting for me to return.