The Wailing Behind the Wall

In the summer of 2014, my daughter, Lily, was just a few months old, and my husband, Tom, and I lived in a converted garage behind a grand Victorian house. The garage was long and narrow, with a single bedroom that housed a double bed and a half-bath, a living area with a secondhand sofa and a desk where Tom gamed, and a cramped kitchenette. There was a front door that opened onto a gravel path and a back door that faced a small, enclosed courtyard, which was bordered by high brick walls on three sides and the main house on the fourth.

One evening, around half past eight, Lily had been fussy all night, refusing to sleep anywhere but on my chest. I lay on the sofa, her tiny body rising and falling with my breaths, her face peaceful in the dim light. Tom sat at his computer, the glow of the screen casting eerie shadows. The only sounds were the soft hum of the computer and Lily’s occasional coo. Then, without warning, a loud, hollow thud came from beyond the back wall, as if something heavy had struck the bricks. Tom and I exchanged glances. ‘What was that?’ he asked, but before I could answer, a second thud, closer and more resonant, shook the wall.

We had lived there for nearly a year, and the courtyard was a dead end, accessible only through our flat or a locked gate that led to the main house’s garden. No one should have been out there. Tom rose, hesitantly, and opened the back door a crack. The courtyard was empty, bathed in the sickly orange glow of a streetlamp that filtered over the wall. The air was still, but there was a faint, acrid smell, like burnt metal. He closed the door, and we decided it must have been a neighbor’s work or a stray animal. But that night, as I finally put Lily in her crib, I heard a low, guttural whisper from the direction of the bathroom: ‘Again.’

I dismissed it as exhaustion, a new mother’s frayed nerves. But the next night, at the same time, the thuds returned, this time synchronized: three strikes, a pause, then three more. Tom went out to check, but the courtyard was bare, the walls unmarked. That’s when we noticed a small, hairline crack in the wall behind the toilet, as if something had pressed against it from the other side. As the days passed, the thuds grew more insistent, and the whispers became clearer: ‘Let me out. It’s cold in here.’ Lily, who had been a sound sleeper, began waking at the same hour, her eyes wide, staring at the bathroom door, muttering infant syllables that sounded disturbingly like ‘out, out.’

One evening, I decided to inspect the wall outside. The brickwork was old, but one area near the bottom, where the wall met the ground, looked newer, as if it had been patched. I scraped at the mortar with a key, and a small chunk crumbled, revealing a dark cavity. A cold draft rushed out, carrying with it a musty smell and a faint, rhythmic moaning. I recoiled, and Tom, hearing my gasp, came out. He was pale. ‘There’s something in there,’ he said, and I nodded. We realized the wall had a hollow space, perhaps an old well or cistern, that had been sealed off when the main house was built.

That night, we decided to open the hole further, to see what was inside. With a hammer and chisel, we widened the crack, and as the last brick fell, a gust of foul air escaped, and we saw a narrow shaft descending into darkness. A voice, now clear and human, called up: ‘Finally. It’s about time you let me out.’ We froze. A hand, gnarled and pale, emerged from the shaft, grasping the edge. Tom grabbed my arm, and we stumbled back into the flat, slamming the back door. But the knocking continued, and through the wood, we heard the voice: ‘I was buried alive, and I’ve waited a century. You will be my company.’

We tried to leave, but the front door would not open, as if the frame had warped. The windows, too, were sealed, the glass vibrating with each thud from outside. Lily began to cry, and the voice shrieked in triumph. We huddled in the bedroom, barricading the bathroom door, but the creature’s hand punched through the cheap wood. Its face, gaunt and dirt-caked, appeared in the hole, its eyes black and wet. ‘You opened the way,’ it hissed, ‘and now you must take my place.’

In a desperate act, I grabbed a heavy iron pipe that Tom used for a project, and swung at the creature’s head. It reeled back, roaring, and I shoved the bathroom door shut, pressing my weight against it. Tom piled furniture, and we fled through the back door, which now swung open. We ran through the courtyard, through a gate we had thought locked, and into the alley beyond. Behind us, the creature’s howl shook the walls. We ran until we reached the main street, gasping, Lily clutched to my chest. We never looked back.

Weeks later, we returned with the police, but the flat was normal—no hole in the wall, no creature. The owner, an old woman who lived in the main house, told us the garage had been built over an old family tomb, and that the last occupant, a disgraced ancestor, had been walled up alive for his crimes. She shrugged, as if it were a mere anecdote. But as we left, I swear I heard a whisper from the wall behind us: ‘I’ll find you again. You can’t seal me twice.’ To this day, whenever a wall thuds or a whisper comes at night, I hold my daughter tighter and pray we outrun what we set free.