When dawn finally came, Mara found herself clutching the bedsheets, her throat raw from screaming into silence.
There were no footprints. No signs of anyone. Just her.
And the whisper that still lingered in her mind like smoke.
She explored the house in daylight, searching for a rational answer. In the study, she found an old photograph — sepia-toned, water-stained. It showed a family standing on the porch: a mother, father, and a little girl in a white dress. Someone had scratched out their faces with a blade.
On the back, a note was scrawled in hurried ink:
> “It’s in the walls now. Don’t listen when it calls your name.”
Mara dropped the photo. It landed face-down, the paper whispering against the wood. That’s when she heard the tapping — rhythmic, deliberate — coming from behind the wallpaper.
Three knocks.
A pause.
Three more.
She pressed her ear to the wall.
> “Let… me… out.”
The next hours blurred into a nightmare. She tore at the wallpaper, exposing old, splintered boards beneath. But there, between the beams, she found a hidden door — small, almost child-sized. Its edges were blackened, as if burned long ago.
A chill radiated from it. The knob was cold metal, and as her fingers touched it, something moved on the other side.
A voice — higher now, softer — whispered, *“Please.”
Every instinct screamed to run.
But Mara turned the knob.
The door opened into darkness.
The smell hit first — rot, iron, damp earth. Her flashlight flickered, beam shaking across what looked like a narrow passageway burrowed through the wall itself. And there, painted in something dark and flaking, were handprints. Small ones. Too small.
She followed them, one trembling step after another, until the passage widened into a hidden room.
Inside was a crib.
Inside the crib was a bundle of rags.
And inside the rags — something moved.
When Mara pulled them back, she saw her own face staring up at her — pale, hollow-eyed, lips curling into a smile not her own.
> “You let me in,” it whispered.
Then the door slammed shut.
The realtor found the house a month later.
Mara’s car was still in the driveway. Her bags were unpacked, the lights on — but no sign of her.
Except for the new photograph on the wall:
a woman standing on the porch, smiling.
Her eyes scratched out.
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