My Daughter Talks to Someone in the Wall

It started with whispers.

At first, I thought they were part of my daughter’s make-believe world. Kids invent friends all the time, and at four years old, Lily had an incredible imagination. She would sit by the corner of her bedroom wall, facing the faded wallpaper with the tiny pink flowers, and talk for hours in soft, giggling murmurs.

“Who are you talking to, sweetheart?” I’d ask.

She’d turn around, smile sweetly, and say, “The Gray Man.”

I laughed the first time she said it. The second time, I felt a cold tingle crawl up my spine.

Week One

Lily started waking up in the middle of the night.

Not crying — just… talking. Always in the same spot, kneeling by the wall. I caught her whispering once at 2:17 a.m., her head tilted slightly, her voice low and steady like she was listening to someone respond.

“The Gray Man says you shouldn’t come in,” she whispered when she saw me watching.

I told myself it was just a phase. Kids go through weird stages. But that same night, I woke up to the unmistakable sound of scratching.

Behind the wall.

Week Two

I invited a friend over — my best friend Emma, who used to work in early childhood development. I didn’t tell her anything beforehand, just asked her to hang out with Lily while I ran an errand.

Twenty minutes later, she called me.

“Your daughter asked me if I’ve met ‘the quiet man inside the wall,’” she said, voice shaking. “She said he likes you. That’s why he’s waiting.”

That night, I moved Lily into my room.

She didn’t resist. In fact, she seemed relieved.

“He doesn’t like your room,” she whispered as I tucked her in. “It’s too bright.”

Week Three

The lights began flickering in Lily’s room. The electrician found nothing wrong. No water damage, no rodents. Nothing. But I heard it again that night — the whispering.

Only this time, I wasn’t dreaming.

I crept to Lily’s room, slowly pushed the door open, and froze. There, in the dark, was Lily standing in front of the wall. Her forehead was touching the wallpaper.

She wasn’t whispering.

She was listening.

And something was whispering back.

Week Four

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think.

I told myself I was being paranoid. So I set up my phone on the top shelf to record overnight. I left the light on. We both slept in my bed.

The next morning, I reviewed the footage.

From 3:12 to 3:27 a.m., the camera shook slightly — like something walked past it.

Then… Lily’s bedroom door opened on its own.

And a faint voice, raspy and dry like cracked leaves, said:

“She’s mine when you sleep.”

Week Five

I called a child psychologist. She said Lily might be suffering from stress or trauma — to keep her away from overstimulating content and maintain a calm environment.

That night, I unplugged the nightlights. I kept every light in the house on. I stayed up, watching Lily sleep.

3:08 a.m. — the power cut off.

The house went completely dark.

Lily stirred and opened her eyes.

“He’s here,” she whispered.

A low creak echoed down the hallway, then… scratching. Faster. Closer. It was coming from inside the walls.

Week Six

I decided to destroy the wall.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The dreams, the voices, the feeling of being watched. I bought a sledgehammer while Lily stayed with my sister for the weekend.

I tore into the drywall like a madman.

Behind the first layer, there was something strange — an old door, boarded up and sealed shut with nails that looked over a hundred years old.

There was a smell. Damp earth. Decay.

I pried it open.

A narrow tunnel stretched into pitch-black darkness, lined with rotting wood beams.

And carved into the side of the tunnel wall… were children’s names.

One of them was Lily.

Final Week

We don’t live in that house anymore.

I sold it without disclosing anything. I don’t feel guilty — not after what I saw.

But Lily still talks to the wall in her new room.

Only now, she whispers my name when she does.

I asked her who she’s talking to.

She smiled that same sweet smile. “He followed us,” she said.

And last night, she told me something that makes my blood run cold.

“He doesn’t live in the wall anymore,” she whispered.

“He lives under your bed.