The Wallpaper Bloom

I have always heard that babies see things different from adults. And the reason I think people believe this is because at an early age, babies don’t know how to lie. They always tell the truth. The reason I think babies can see this stuff is because they can’t really be expected to tell it to the media.

My little sister, Clara June, acts like she sees stuff all the time. It creeps me out how she knows things. Now before I begin this story, let me get a few things out of your head. She doesn’t watch any scary shows. She watches ‘Pocoyo’ and ‘Peppa Pig’, shows like those mentioned. She has never watched anything that I watch or anyone else. She can’t read so she couldn’t have got this from a book. Also we are not like most families. We don’t gather around the campfire and tell scary ghost stories. We hardly ever communicate except when eating at the table, and even then we just talk about the school day and work. That’s all. Well now this is how the story begins.

I left my bed at three in the morning to get a glass of water. The hallway was dark, but the nightlight at the far end cast a sickly orange glow. As I passed Clara’s room, I heard her cooing softly. I peeked in. She was sitting up in her crib, her chubby finger pointing at the far wall where the old floral wallpaper had started to peel. In the dim light, the patterns seemed to shift, almost like they were breathing.

‘Flowers,’ she said, her voice clear for a thirteen-month-old. ‘They see.’

I shrugged it off. Babies babble. But the next night, she did it again. And the next. Each time, her finger pointed to the same spot. The wallpaper was old, covered in faded roses and ivy, but I noticed something odd: the peeling corner had grown slightly larger, and the pattern seemed to have more contrast, as if the colors were brighter.

On the third night, I decided to investigate. I pulled back the peeling edge, expecting to find plain drywall. Instead, I found something that made me drop the paper: written on the plaster, in a shaky child’s handwriting, were the words ‘WE SEE THROUGH THE BLOSSOMS.’

I nearly tore the entire sheet off. Beneath it, more writing. Names. Dates. Some were recent, like ‘M. H. 1998’ and ‘T. R. 2004’. And then, at the bottom, in fresh black ink: ‘C. J. NOW.’

My blood ran cold. Those were my sister’s initials.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I asked my parents about the wallpaper. They said it had been there since we moved in. I told them about the writing, but they brushed it off as old graffiti. ‘Kids write on walls all the time,’ my dad said. ‘Ignore it.’

But Clara wouldn’t ignore it. She was almost obsessed. She would stare at that wall for hours, reaching out as if to touch the flowers. When I held her, she would twist and point and say, ‘They want me to come in.’

One night, I woke to a sound like tearing paper. I rushed to Clara’s room. The light was on. She was sitting in her crib, her eyes wide, and the entire wallpaper was peeling back in long strips, revealing the entire wall covered in writing. It was all the same phrase: ‘LET US IN.’

Clara looked at me, her tiny face pale. ‘They’re in the walls,’ she whispered. ‘They’ve always been in the walls.’

I grabbed her and ran to my parents’ room. They were sleeping peacefully. I shook them awake. ‘Something’s wrong with the house!’ I shouted. But when we returned to Clara’s room, the wallpaper was perfectly intact. The writing was gone. Clara was asleep, clutching her teddy bear.

My parents sighed. ‘You’re too old for this,’ my mom said.

But I knew what I saw. And so did Clara, because the next morning, she pointed to the wall and said, ‘The flowers bloom at night.’

A week later, I found a new rosebud painted on the wallpaper, deep red and perfectly formed, right where Clara’s cot was. I touched it. It was warm, like living flesh. And beneath it, the faintest whisper: ‘She’s ours now.’

I knew I had to get her out. But every time I tried to take Clara out of the house, she would scream and cry, clawing at the air. The only place she was calm was in her crib, facing that wall. And each day, the rosebud grew. It opened slowly, revealing a dark center like a throat.

The day the rose bloomed fully, Clara smiled for the first time in weeks. She reached out and touched the center of the flower. The petals closed around her finger, and she giggled. ‘I see them,’ she said. ‘They’re coming to play.’

That night, I heard her cooing again. I went to the door. She was sitting up, facing the wall. The wallpaper was moving, undulating like a living thing. The flowers were all opening, their dark centers like gaping mouths. And in the center of each, I saw faces. Dozens of faces, pressed against the surface, their eyes wide and desperate.

Clara turned to me, her eyes no longer baby blue but pitch black. ‘They said I can stay,’ she said. ‘Forever.’

I screamed. I grabbed her, but she felt weightless, and I saw that the wallpaper was now covering her arms, her legs, snaking around her body. She laughed as it enveloped her. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘The flowers are my friends now.’

And then she was gone. The wallpaper smoothed, the flowers returned to their faded state. But now there was a new bud, small and white, in the corner. I know it will bloom. And I know that when it does, I’ll see her face in the petals, waiting for me to join her.