There’s something living in the walls, .
You hear it breathing at night.
Scratches, whispers, tapping — always when the lights go out.
You tried telling someone. They laughed.
You placed a microphone by the wall to prove it.
The recording played whispers: “Let me out.”
You turned off the audio. The whisper continued.
It was no longer coming from the recording.
You drilled a hole in the wall.
Inside: not bricks — just darkness.
You shined a flashlight in.
You covered the hole with tape.
In the morning, the tape was peeled back neatly.
Your name was written in dust beneath it.
It’s learning who you are.
You moved far away. Clean walls. Quiet nights.
Until your first night — the walls whispered: “Found you.”
You froze. It was the same voice.
The same scratching started again.
You smashed the wall open with a hammer.
Inside was a tunnel. Lined with teeth.
You ran. Didn’t look back. Blocked the hole with bricks.
The next morning, the bricks were gone.
The wall was smooth again. Like nothing ever happened.
Except your reflection in the window was still holding the hammer.
Your calendar flipped itself to the 13th.
A red circle. Below it: “Breakthrough.”
At midnight, the wall cracked wide open.
Inside stood… you. But smiling.
“Thanks for letting me out,” it said.
You backed away. But the wall behind you was soft.
You sank into it. Screaming.
The wall closed around you. Quiet again.
Now , you are the whisper.
Where to now?