The Weeping Wallpaper

The house on Maple Street had a history, but not the kind that shows up in public records. When I bought it, the realtor described it as ‘a fixer-upper with character,’ which is code for ‘nearly condemned.’ But the price was right, and I had a vision of peeling back layers of grime to reveal a warm, welcoming home.

My first project was the main bedroom, where the wallpaper was a symphony of faded roses and water stains. I spent an afternoon scraping, but the paper clung stubbornly, as if it were alive. Underneath, the plaster was etched with a pattern of fine cracks, and in one corner, a faint, dark smudge that looked like a portrait left behind. I thought nothing of it until the night of my first sleep.

It began with a sound—a soft, rhythmic scrape, like fingernails dragging along plaster. I woke, heart pounding, but the room was still. I told myself it was the house settling, the wind, the creaking of old bones. But the next night, it was louder, and I could swear it was coming from inside the wall, just above my head. I pressed my ear to the cool surface and heard, faint as a breath, a woman’s voice murmuring, ‘Let me out.’

I searched the rest of the house, frantic, but found nothing. The old woman who had lived here, Missus Cripps, had been a recluse. Neighbors said she was kind, but odd. They’d seen her through the windows, talking to herself, or to someone they couldn’t see. They also mentioned she had a fondness for sewing, and that her hands were always busy. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt the wallpaper staring at me, the roses curving like eyes.

In the weeks that followed, the voice grew in detail. I learned her name was Eleanor, and she was trapped. I became obsessed, spending nights with my ear to the plaster, picking at it with a knife until my fingers bled. I was convinced there was a hidden room, a secret chamber where she was sealed. I tore down the wall in the closet, and behind it, I found an opening—a narrow passage that reeked of damp earth and decay.

I crawled in, heart slamming, and found a small, windowless cell. It smelled of mothballs and old sweat, and the walls were covered in a strange, fibrous material, like pressed flowers and glue. It was then I saw the figure—a hunched, gray-skinned thing, its eyes sewn shut with black thread, its mouth open in a silent scream. It wore a tattered floral dress, and its hands, covered in dust, reached out to me. I staggered back, but the creature moved with a jerky, unnatural speed, and it grabbed my ankle with a grip like a vise. It pulled me in, and the last thing I saw before the darkness was the wallpaper closing over my own face.

Now I live in the walls. I watch new owners come and go, their renovations tearing at my shelter. I whisper to them at night, and I feel their fear through the plaster. Sometimes, I think about the woman who used to be me, and I hope someone will find my story. But the house is patient, and so am I. The weeping wallpaper is my skin now, and I will never let anyone out again.