Whispers in the Walls

Whispers in the Walls

Alex never believed in ghosts. He prided himself on logic, science, and reason. But after moving into his new apartment, something felt… off.

It was a great deal—too great. A spacious flat in a quiet neighborhood for half the usual rent. The landlord, an old man with sunken eyes and a voice like dry leaves, handed him the keys with an odd smirk. "People don’t stay long," he muttered under his breath. Alex didn’t ask why.

The first night was uneventful. Just the sound of rain against the windows, the distant hum of passing cars.

But on the second night, he heard it.

A whisper.

It was faint, almost indistinguishable from the wind. He turned off the TV and strained his ears. It was coming from the wall behind his bed.

Muffled murmurs, low and urgent, like someone talking just beyond his range of understanding.

He pressed his ear against the cold plaster. Silence.

But as soon as he moved away—

Whisper.

A shiver ran down his spine. His rational mind tried to explain it away. Pipes, maybe? Some weird acoustics?

That night, he barely slept.

The next morning, he asked his neighbor, a woman in her fifties, if she had heard anything. She gave him a strange look.

“There hasn’t been anyone living next door for months.”

Alex laughed nervously. “Maybe it’s the pipes.”

She shook her head. “No plumbing runs through that wall.”

His stomach twisted.

That night, the whispers grew louder.

They started in the walls, but soon, they were everywhere. The ceiling, the floor, the bathroom mirror. He tried recording them on his phone, but when he played the audio back, all he heard was silence.

He barely ate. His skin grew pale, his eyes hollow. Work felt distant, unreal—he lost track of days. The walls breathed when he wasn’t looking, shifting like living flesh.

Then, the whispers formed words.

"Let us in."

The first time he heard it, he froze. He tried to convince himself he imagined it. But the next night, he heard it again, clearer.

"Let us in, Alex."

His blood turned to ice.

How did it know his name?

One evening, he came home late and found the apartment wrong.

The air was thick, oppressive. His reflection in the mirror seemed… delayed, moving just a fraction of a second behind him. The lights flickered. The whispers grew into a chorus, overlapping voices filling the room, their tone almost hungry.

And then—silence.

A pause, like something watching.

He turned slowly. The bedroom door, which he had left open, was now closed.

His breath came in shallow gasps.

Summoning every ounce of courage, he walked toward the door and reached for the handle.

The moment his fingers touched it, a voice—directly in his ear—whispered:

"You shouldn't have stayed."

The door flung open on its own.

The room beyond was not his bedroom.

The walls pulsed, dark shapes slithering beneath their surface. The floor was… wrong, stretching into a black abyss that seemed to swallow light. His bed was missing. The window led to nothing.

And in the center of the room stood a figure.

It was tall, impossibly thin, its face an empty void of shifting darkness. It didn’t move. It just watched.

Alex stumbled backward, slamming the door shut. His breath came in ragged gasps. He bolted out of the apartment, running down the hall, down the stairs, into the street—barefoot, shaking, his mind unraveling.

He spent the night at a friend’s place, but he couldn’t explain why.

The next morning, against every instinct screaming at him, he returned.

The apartment was normal. His bed was there. The walls looked solid again. No shadows, no whispers.

Had he imagined it?

Maybe it was sleep deprivation, stress, something explainable.

He convinced himself that was the truth.

Until that night.

He lay in bed, exhausted, but something felt wrong. His body was heavy, like something was pressing down on him. His vision blurred as sleep pulled at him—

And then—

A breath. Right against his ear.

"You let us in."

His body jerked awake, but he couldn’t move. Sleep paralysis?

No.

A figure sat on his chest. The same shadowy thing from the room. Its face inches from his, a gaping hole of writhing darkness.

A hand—too long, too many fingers—slid over his mouth.

His scream never escaped.

The landlord found him the next morning, curled up in the corner of his apartment, staring at the wall, whispering to himself. His nails were torn, bloody, from clawing at the plaster.

The landlord sighed.

"Another one."

He called someone to take Alex away.

As they carried him out, Alex whispered frantically, "They’re in the walls! The walls! You have to—"

The door slammed shut.

The apartment fell silent.

Then, from deep within the walls—

A whisper.

And a slow, curling smile in the mirror.