The Wall of Yellow Eyes

I know what you’re thinking: another teenager with an overactive imagination, another story that’s probably just a nightmare blown out of proportion. But I swear on my grandmother’s grave—who was a staunch atheist, by the way—that what I’m about to tell you is as real as the floor beneath your feet.

I grew up in a small town named Harrowgate, nestled in the folds of the Appalachian foothills. My family was devoutly religious in a way that made the church our second home, and my mother, a woman of iron faith, had a simple explanation for everything that went bump in the night: it was all demonic. Ghosts, spirits, the lingering dead—she dismissed them as tricks of the devil, traps to lure the faithful astray. I learned early on to keep my fears to myself, to hide the things I saw and heard.

But when I was six, I started having the dream. It was always the same. I’d be lying in my bed, staring at the wall opposite me, a wall painted a pale beige that seemed to glow in the dark. Then, without warning, a section of the wall would peel open like skin, revealing a dark forest. The trees were gnarled, the leaves a sickly yellow, and perched among them were birds—bright yellow, almost golden. They would sing a melody that was too sweet, too perfect, and then, one by one, they would turn to face me, and their eyes would become glowing yellow orbs, identical to the eyes of the woman who always appeared next.

She was tall, draped in black, her face a mask of bone-white skin, and her eyes were that same piercing yellow. She never spoke, but she laughed—a low, cruel laugh that vibrated through my bones. The laugh would grow louder and louder until I would wake up screaming, my mother rushing in to hold me, but her words were always the same: ‘It’s just a dream, sweetie, from the devil. Pray it away.’

And I did pray. I prayed so hard that my knees ached, but the dream persisted. It followed me through childhood, a recurring phantom that I learned to dread with every fiber of my being. The older I got, the more I tried to rationalize it: it’s just stress, it’s just a recurring nightmare, it means nothing. But something in me knew it was more.

When I turned sixteen, the dream changed. It started the same way—the wall peeling open, the forest, the yellow birds—but this time, when the woman appeared, she didn’t just laugh. She spoke. Her voice was like rustling leaves, dry and papery. She said, ‘You’ve grown, little one. It’s time to come home.’

I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. I didn’t scream that time. I just lay there, staring at the wall, which was unchanged. But I noticed something: the wall was warm to the touch, as if something behind it had been breathing.

Naturally, I told my mother, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she would listen this time. But she only frowned, her lips pressed into a thin line, and said, ‘It’s the devil’s work. We’ll pray over your room.’ That night, she and the pastor from our church came into my room, splashing holy water and reading passages from the Bible. They demanded the demon leave in the name of God. I felt embarrassed, standing there in my pajamas, but I didn’t dare contradict them.

For a week, the dream stopped. I was relieved, thinking maybe they were right. But then, on the seventh night, I woke up because I felt something watching me. I turned on my lamp, and there, on the wall, were two glowing yellow eyes, not in the dream, but in reality. They stared at me from within the plaster, unblinking. I was frozen, unable to scream, as a voice whispered from the wall, ‘You cannot deny me forever, child. I am part of you.’

I flung myself out of bed, ran to my parents’ room, and burst in, sobbing. I told them what I saw. My father was skeptical, but my mother was furious. She grabbed her Bible and marched to my room, brandishing it like a weapon. When she opened the door, the eyes were gone, and the room was cold. She turned to me, her face hard, and said, ‘It’s a lie. You’re lying to get attention.’

I felt a crack in my chest, a betrayal so deep I couldn’t speak. After that night, I stopped talking about it. I stopped sleeping with the lights off. I kept my lamp burning all night, and I stayed awake as long as I could, fearing sleep.

But exhaustion always wins.

A month later, I was in my room studying when I noticed the wall beginning to shimmer. The beige paint seemed to ripple, as if the wall was made of water. Before I could react, the surface split open, revealing the forest from my dreams. The yellow birds were there, singing, and the woman stood among them, her eyes fixed on me. She beckoned with a long, bony finger. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Your mother sent you to me.’

I shook my head, backing away, but my foot caught on the rug and I fell. The wall loomed, the forest expanded, and I felt a pull, as if the world itself was tilting, trying to drag me into that impossible space. I grabbed my desk chair and held on for dear life, but my grip was slipping. The woman’s laugh filled my ears, and I felt my fingers numbing.

Then, just as I was about to let go, I saw something else—a faint glow, a shape like a woman, but different. She was warm, radiant, not like the pale thing in black. She stood between me and the apparition, and she spoke, but not in a language I knew. She seemed to be arguing with the yellow-eyed woman, her voice a gentle hum.

The yellow-eyed woman shrieked, and the forest vanished. The wall was solid again, but now it was cold. I was trembling, tears streaming down my face.

I lay there for a long time, until the night lightened into dawn. When I looked at the wall, I noticed a faint outline, like a handprint, burned into the paint. It was a woman’s hand, but not the one from the dream.

I never told my mother about that night. I stopped going to church, which caused a rift that never healed. But I also started reading everything I could about the supernatural, about spirits and the afterlife, and I learned that my mother was wrong. There are ghosts, there are benevolent spirits, and there are entities that are purely malevolent. And I learned that some spirits are tied to places, and some are tied to people.

Years passed, and I moved away from Harrowgate, got a job, tried to live a normal life. But the dream never fully left. It came back every few months, always a little different, but always with her. And she always said the same thing: ‘You still haven’t come home.’

Last week, I received a letter from my mother. It was the first time she had written to me in years. She apologized for not believing me, and she told me that after I left, she started having the dreams too. She saw the wall, the forest, the yellow eyes, and she heard a voice that said, ‘You don’t deserve her.’

My mother died last Tuesday. The doctors said it was a heart attack, but I know better. She drowned in the same dream she had always denied.

And now, as I write this, the wall in my current apartment is starting to shimmer. The paint is rippling, and I can hear the faint melody of yellow birds. The woman is there, her eyes glowing in the plaster, and she’s smiling. She says, ‘Now there’s no one to protect you.’

I don’t know who the kind spirit was that saved me that day. Maybe it was my grandmother, who always said she’d watch over me. Maybe it was the house, or something older. But I know this: I am alone now, and the wall is calling.

If you hear a song that seems too sweet, and you see yellow eyes in the plaster, don’t pray. Don’t curse. Just run. Run as far as you can, because that wall is not just a doorway—it’s a mouth, and it’s hungry.”

I’m not sure if anyone will read this, but if you do, and you find yourself in a room with pale walls, and you notice a warmth emanating from them, trust me, you are not imagining it. It’s already seen you. And it’s patient.”

I’ve fought it for most of my life, but now I understand: some things are not meant to be fought. They are meant to be embraced. And so, I’m going to open the wall. I’m going to walk into the forest, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally find my mother there, waiting for me, with eyes like yellow fire. She’ll smile, and I’ll realize that the dream was never a nightmare—it was a homecoming.”

This is my final confession, my last act of defiance. I hope my words reach someone, and I hope they believe. But even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. The wall is open now. I can hear the birds. I can see the yellow.

I’m coming home.