The Wallpaper Man

The house on Ashworth Lane was a mistake from the start. I knew it the moment we pulled up in the moving truck, the engine sighing like a tired beast. The siding was a sickly yellow, the kind you see on a nicotine-stained ceiling, and the porch sagged like a tired old man. My parents, thrilled about the new job in the oil fields, saw a ‘fixer-upper.’ I saw a rotting tooth in the middle of a suburban street.

It was September, and I had just turned fourteen. We’d been in the city for two years, and I still hadn’t found my tribe. Back in the mining town, I had known every inch of the forest, the smell of pine and the chatter of squirrels. Here, the forest was a manicured park, and the kids talked about brands and bodies, things that made my stomach knot. So I retreated into the house, into my room, which was the only place I could stand.

My room had this ugly wallpaper. It was a pattern of faded roses on a burgundy background, peeling at the corners. At night, the shadows from the streetlamp would make the roses writhe like tentacles. I started sleeping with a nightlight, which made my mom sigh and my dad tease me. But I couldn’t tell them that the wallpaper seemed to be watching me, that I felt a pressure, like a hand on my chest, whenever I was alone.

I took up smoking as a rebellion of sorts. Not the cool kind—just me and the two other misfits from school, a girl named Elsie with too-wild hair and a boy named Mateo who hummed songs under his breath. We’d huddle behind the garage, sharing cigarettes and talking about the creatures we imagined living in the crawl space under the house. It was harmless, until one night when Mateo dared me to press my ear against the floorboards of my own room.

I did it. And I heard something. Not a voice, not a sound, but a vibration, a hum that seemed to come from the walls themselves. I pressed harder, and I could swear I felt a pulse, like the house was breathing. I pulled back, my heart pounding, and the hum stopped. I told Elsie and Mateo, and they laughed, but Elsie’s eyes were wide. She whispered, ‘My grandma says the land remembers. This place was a farmhouse once. They say the farmer’s son killed himself in the attic.’

I hadn’t known we had an attic. I looked up, and sure enough, there was a trapdoor in the ceiling of the hallway. It was painted over, almost invisible. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wallpaper roses seemed to pulse in the dim light, and I could smell something faint, like old dust and something metallic. I got up and pushed a chair under the attic door. I pushed it open, and a ladder creaked down.

I climbed up. The attic was so low I had to crouch. It was mostly empty, just a few boxes and a child’s rocking horse. But on the far wall, there was a patch of wallpaper, the same pattern as my room, but older, more faded. On it, someone had scratched a message. I held up my phone’s light. It said, ‘HE EXISTS. HE WATCHES.’

A draft blew, and the rocking horse began to rock on its own, a slow, steady creak. I froze. I could feel eyes on me, not from the wall, but from behind me. I turned, and for a fraction of a second, I saw a figure—tall, thin, with skin like the wallpaper, peeling and patterned. Then it was gone.

I scrambled out of the attic and slammed the trapdoor shut. I didn’t tell my parents. They were already talking about moving again, the oil field work being unstable. But I couldn’t leave that message. I took a picture of it. The next day, I showed it to Elsie and Mateo. We decided to ‘investigate.’ We read about the history of the land. It had been a farm, and the farmer’s family had died of a plague, all but the son, who was said to have gone mad and locked himself in the attic, where he starved. His body was never found.

We went back up there at dusk, armed with my phone and a flashlight. The attic was colder, and the air was thick with dust. The rocking horse was still, but I felt the hum again, right in my bones. Mateo whispered, ‘He’s here.’ And then the wallpaper began to ripple, as if alive. The roses turned deep red, blood red, and they seemed to bleed down the walls. The figure appeared, more solid now. It had no face, just a smooth expanse of the same patterned wallpaper, and it reached out with long, papery fingers.

We ran. We tumbled down the ladder, into the hall, and didn’t stop until we were outside, gasping in the cold night air. Elsie was crying. ‘We have to tell someone,’ she said. But my parents, when I tried to tell them, just said I had a fever. They blamed it on my ‘imagination,’ a word they threw at me like a weapon.

That week, the house grew darker. The shadows seemed to have weight. I started seeing the figure in corners, in reflections. It was always just out of sight, but I knew it was watching. Elsie and Mateo refused to come over, and their silence made me feel more alone than ever.

One night, I couldn’t take it. I wrote a question on my own wallpaper, in permanent marker: ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’ The next morning, a new line had been scratched beneath it: ‘MY SON.’

I understood then. The farmer’s son, the one who starved—he might have been the one watching, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was the father, a demon made of grief and rage, searching for a child to take. The wallpaper was his skin, the whole house his body. And I was the only child left.

I decided to fight back. I grabbed a knife and ripped the wallpaper off my wall, tearing it in strips. The house shuddered, and I heard a scream, not human, but a sound like tearing paper. I ran to the attic, the ladder already down. I climbed up with the knife, and the figure was there, waiting, its faceless head tilted. I screamed, ‘I’m not your son!’ and slashed at its chest. The wallpaper split, and a real face appeared—gaunt, hollow-eyed, but human. It smiled a terrible smile, and then it crumpled, like the costume it was.

The house fell silent. I stood there, panting, the knife slick with something like dust. I looked at the spot and saw a small, rusted music box. I picked it up. It played a tinny lullaby. I took it with me when my parents got the news we were moving again the next month. We left Ashworth Lane without looking back.

Years have passed. I’m an adult now, living in a new city. But sometimes, at night, I hear that tinny lullaby, as if it’s coming from inside the walls of my apartment. And when I do, I don’t turn on the lights. I look at the wallpaper I’ve put up—a modern, geometric pattern—and I swear, just for a moment, it moves. I keep the music box locked in a safe, but every now and then, I feel a draft, like a door opening, and I know he’s still watching, waiting to be called back.