The Waking Pattern

My sister-in-law, Lena, and her boyfriend, Marcus, moved in with us about two years ago, bringing their three kids: six-year-old Ivy, three-year-old Oliver, and two-year-old Sophie. At first, it was chaotic but manageable. I’m their aunt, and I love them, but Oliver’s night terrors have turned our home into a sleepless warzone.

It started four months ago, unremarkable at first. Oliver, who has severe asthma and communicates mostly through frantic hand gestures, would wake up screaming. We’d rush in, find him gasping for air, his small chest heaving. We assumed it was asthma attacks or nightmares. But they escalated. Almost every night now, he screams with a desperation that chills me. His hands flail, pointing at the corner of the room, his mouth open in a silent wail.

The other kids aren’t affected. Ivy sleeps through it, and Sophie stirs but never wakes. We tried everything: vapor rubs, nightlights, moving him to our room. Nothing helps. But last Tuesday, something changed.

I had come home late from a pottery class. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I tiptoed past the kids’ room, but a faint scratching sound stopped me. I peered in. Oliver was standing in his crib, staring at the wall. He turned his head slowly, looked at me, and pointed. Then he whispered, ‘She’s waiting.’ That was the first time I heard him speak clearly. I froze.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying his words. ‘She.’ Who? The next night, I set up a baby monitor with a camera in their room, just to keep an eye on them. At 3:33 AM, the monitor crackled with static, and I saw Oliver sit up, his eyes wide. He was pointing at the closet door. The closet door was slowly opening, creaking. No one was there. My blood ran cold.

I ran to their room, threw open the door. The closet was empty, just clothes and boxes. But Oliver was trembling, his lips blue from holding his breath. I held him, tried to soothe him. He kept mouthing something. I leaned close: ‘She’s in the walls.’

I decided to check the basement. It’s an old stone basement, unfinished, with bare bulbs and cobwebs. I’d never liked it. I went down, flashlight in hand. The walls were rough, ancient. I ran my hand along them, feeling the cold stone. Then I saw it: a small, child-sized handprint, gray and dusty, on the wall by the fuse box. It looked fresh.

The next morning, I told Marcus and Lena. They brushed it off, said Oliver’s imagination is wild. But they agreed to stay in the kids’ room that night. I stayed up, watching the camera feed. At 3:33 AM, the static returned. The closet door creaked open. But this time, a pale figure emerged. It was small, like a child, but with dark hollow eyes. It crawled toward the crib, reached out a hand. Marcus and Lena were asleep. I screamed into the monitor, but they didn’t wake. The figure touched Oliver’s forehead, and he went limp.

I raced upstairs, burst into the room. The closet door was closed. Oliver was sleeping peacefully, but his breathing was shallow. I woke Marcus and Lena. They said he was fine. But I saw it. I know I did.

The next day, I found an old journal in the attic. It belonged to the previous owner’s daughter, a girl named Eliza who had died in this house fifty years ago. The last entry read: ‘She wants me to play. But I can’t breathe. She doesn’t like it when I can’t breathe. She said she’ll find a new friend.’

I realized then that the thing in the walls has a pattern. It chooses the child who can’t breathe. It waits until they sleep, then it takes their breath, leaving them gasping. Oliver’s asthma makes him vulnerable. We need to leave. But the house won’t let us. The car won’t start. The phones dead. We’re trapped.

Tonight, at 3:33 AM, the figure will come again. I’ve barricaded the closet, but I know it’s useless. I’m writing this in the bathroom, the only door I’ve locked with a metal chain. I hear the floorboards creak outside. The children are screaming. And I know, when I look in the mirror, there will be a gray handprint on my shoulder.