The Wallpaper in Room 7

I’ve always had a strange connection to the unexplained, but nothing prepared me for what happened in that newly built hotel on the outskirts of Millbrook. It was a sprawling, three-story structure with a modern facade, all glass and steel, but it felt off from the moment I stepped inside. My aunt had won a weekend stay and invited me along, and we were given Room 7 on the top floor, a corner suite with a view of the pine forest that surrounded the property. The room was pristine, all white linens and polished wood, but the wallpaper—an intricate pattern of deep burgundy vines—was oddly unsettling. It seemed to shift in the periphery, as if the vines were slowly crawling.

That first night, I woke to a sound like dry paper being torn. I sat up, heart pounding, and the noise stopped. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the emergency exit sign down the hall. I told myself it was the old building settling, even though it was new. I tried to sleep, but the scratching returned, rhythmic and deliberate, coming from the wall behind the bed. It was as if something was scraping from the inside, trying to get out. I turned on the lamp, and the scratching ceased. I examined the wallpaper, running my fingers over the raised pattern. It was perfectly smooth, no sign of damage. I convinced myself it was my imagination and eventually drifted off.

The next morning, I mentioned the sound to my aunt, but she laughed it off, saying it was probably mice. But later that day, I noticed something odd: the wallpaper in the corner near the closet had a small tear, and beneath it, the plaster was gouged, as if claws had raked it. I felt a chill, but I didn’t want to alarm my aunt. That night, I decided to stay up and watch the wall. I positioned a chair to face it, and as the hours crawled by, nothing happened. I must have dozed off, because I woke to the scratching again, louder this time. I stared at the wall, and for a split second, I saw the wallpaper ripple, like a wave, and then a thin crack appeared in the plaster, running from the baseboard to the ceiling. I stumbled back, and the room went silent.

I didn’t sleep anymore that night. The next day, I called my aunt, who was at a conference, and she said I was overreacting. She suggested I go for a walk to clear my head. I wandered into the forest, trying to calm my nerves, but I kept thinking about that wallpaper. When I returned, the maid was just leaving the room, and she gave me a strange look. I entered to find the wallpaper had been replaced in that section—a fresh patch, but the pattern was slightly off, the vines now twisted into an almost skeletal shape. I asked the front desk about it, but they claimed no one had been to my room. I insisted, and they sent a manager up. He inspected the wall, his face pale, and then he whispered, ‘This room was sealed for a reason.’

That evening, as the sun set, the scratching returned, but this time it was accompanied by a low moan, like the wind through a hollow tube. I grabbed my phone and called the front desk, but the line was dead. I ran to the door, but the handle was cold and wouldn’t turn. I was trapped. The wallpaper began to bulge in places, and I saw the vines move—they were not just a pattern, they were alive. They twisted and writhed, and through the gaps, I saw a pale face press against the plaster, its mouth open in a silent scream. I backed into the corner, and the air grew icy. The scratching intensified, and the wall split open, revealing a dark, hollow space behind. From it, a figure emerged—wrapped in the same wallpaper, its skin gray and peeling, its eyes like burnt holes. It reached for me with long, thin fingers, and as it touched my cheek, I heard a voice in my head: ‘You saw the pattern.’

I must have passed out, because I woke on the floor, the room in perfect order, no sign of damage. My aunt found me and said I had been out for hours. When I tried to explain, she shook her head. ‘You just had a nightmare,’ she said, but I knew it was real. As we checked out, the old manager handed me a piece of the wallpaper that had been torn. ‘Keep it as a souvenir,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘But never look at it in the dark.’ I took it, and on the drive home, I couldn’t help but stare at the intricate vines. That night, I placed it in a drawer, but I swear I could still hear the scratching, soft and constant, like the sound of something crawling behind the walls of my own home. Even now, years later, I sometimes wake in the night and feel an itch in my fingers, a desire to tear at the wallpaper in my bedroom. I’m afraid to check, but I know it’s starting to show the same pattern.