Don’t Look at the Wall at 3:00 AM

Don’t Look at the Wall at 3:00 AM

When my roommate, Lisa, asked me to housesit for the weekend, I didn’t think twice. Free food, access to her enormous TV, and a place away from my cramped apartment? Easy yes.

But she did say one weird thing before leaving.

“If you wake up at 3 AM, don’t look at the wall across the bed.”

I laughed it off. “What, is it haunted?”

Lisa didn’t laugh.

“I’m serious.”

⸻

Her place was modern but cozy. Neutral walls, plants, soft lighting. The kind of space that made you feel like everything was going to be okay. Nothing creepy about it.

Until night came.

I watched a movie, had some snacks, and eventually passed out in the guest bedroom. It was small but comfortable. I noticed the wall opposite the bed had a strange texture — rippled, almost like it had been painted over badly.

Didn’t think much of it.

Until I woke up.

3:04 AM.

No noise. No nightmares. Just a sudden jolt — like my body knew something I didn’t.

I sat up.

The room was freezing. My breath fogged in the air.

And I felt it.

Not saw it.

Felt it.

The wall… was watching me.

⸻

I kept my eyes fixed on the blanket.

Lisa’s voice echoed in my head: “Don’t look at the wall.”

But curiosity is a powerful thing.

I peeked.

Just a glance.

The wall wasn’t solid anymore.

It… rippled. Like heatwaves. Like skin.

There was a shape forming in the center. Faint, then clearer — a face, pushing through. Not a human face. Something stretched and hollow, eyes black and wide.

I shut my eyes.

I counted.

One. Two. Three.

When I opened them — it was gone.

⸻

The next morning, I almost convinced myself it was a dream.

Until I found the scratch marks.

On the wall. Right where I saw the face. Long, uneven grooves, freshly dug into the paint. My heart sank.

I texted Lisa: “You never told me the wall could move.”

She replied instantly:

“It doesn’t. Unless someone looks at it. Did you look??”

I didn’t answer.

⸻

That night, I left the lights on. Slept facing the other way. But my body — or something else — woke me again.

3:01 AM.

This time, I didn’t move.

But the wall made a sound.

A tapping. Soft at first. Then more urgent. Like fingernails drumming on wood.

Then, a whisper.

Not from behind the wall. From inside my head.

“Let me out.”

⸻

I squeezed my eyes shut and started reciting song lyrics just to block out the noise. My own heartbeat felt like it was echoing off the floor.

Something scraped across the wall.

I heard my name.

Not in Lisa’s voice. Not even mine.

It was the voice of something pretending to be human.

“I’ve waited long enough.”

⸻

I must’ve passed out, because I woke up to sunlight and birds.

And the wall? Smooth. Clean. Normal.

Except for one thing.

There was a handprint in the middle.

Dark. Charred. Pressed into the wall as if something had burned through — then been pulled back in.

⸻

When Lisa returned, I was packed and waiting outside.

She took one look at my face and said, “You looked, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

Lisa looked over my shoulder at the house, jaw tight.

“It took my brother.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Three years ago. Same wall. Same room. He looked. At first, it was just dreams. Then came the whispers. Then… nothing.”

“He’s gone now. I can feel it. But the wall remembers him.”

⸻

That night, I slept with all the lights on in my own apartment. Covered every wall with blankets. I’ve avoided mirrors. Shiny surfaces. Even shadows.

But two nights ago…

I woke up at 3:00 AM.

And there, on my bedroom wall — was a handprint.

Black. Smudged.

It followed me.

I don’t know what it is. But I know one thing:

Whatever’s inside the wall isn’t trapped anymore.

It’s just choosing when to come out.