The Watcher in the Walls

Ava had always considered herself a skeptic. Ghost stories, haunted houses, and paranormal claims—she dismissed them all as mere fiction. It wasn’t until she moved into her new apartment that her beliefs were about to be shattered forever.

The apartment was small but charming, nestled in the corner of an old building in a quiet, forgotten part of town. The rent was cheap, and Ava, fresh out of college, was thrilled to find something so affordable. The landlord was a strange man, quiet and distant, but he assured her that the apartment had no issues.

The first few weeks were uneventful, save for the occasional creak in the floorboards and the hum of the old pipes. But one evening, while sitting on her couch, Ava noticed something peculiar—a faint scratching sound coming from the walls. At first, she chalked it up to the building’s age, but as the sound persisted, it began to gnaw at her.

It wasn’t the occasional creak of settling wood or the sound of rats running through the walls. This was deliberate, rhythmic. It sounded like something—or someone—was trying to get her attention.

Curiosity piqued, Ava decided to investigate. She knocked on the walls, trying to locate the source of the noise, but the scratching abruptly stopped.

The following night, as she lay in bed, she heard it again. This time, it was louder. The scratching had a new layer of urgency to it, a frantic desperation that made her heart race. The air in the room grew thick, and for a moment, she could’ve sworn she felt eyes on her, cold and unblinking.

Ava tried to ignore it, dismissing the odd sensation. She hadn’t slept well since moving in, and her mind was playing tricks on her. But as the nights wore on, the noises grew more disturbing—scratching, tapping, and the occasional soft whisper.

Determined to find the cause, Ava took a flashlight and crawled into the cramped space behind her bed. She pried loose a section of the drywall and peered inside, her heart pounding in her chest.

At first, she saw nothing—just old wires and insulation. But as her eyes adjusted, she noticed something strange—an old, faded photograph, wedged into the cracks of the wall. She pulled it out, her fingers trembling, and held it up to the light.

The photograph was of a man, his eyes wide and hollow, staring directly at the camera. His face was gaunt, his expression one of torment. But what made Ava’s blood run cold was the fact that in the background, partially obscured by shadows, was a small, almost imperceptible figure—someone watching from the shadows.

Ava’s hands shook as she dropped the photograph, her breath caught in her throat. She backed away from the wall, her mind racing. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she had never seen the apartment building’s former tenants. The landlord had been evasive when she’d asked about the apartment’s history. The whispers and scratching seemed to be getting worse with each passing night, as though something—or someone—was trying to make contact.

That night, Ava couldn’t bring herself to sleep. The noises were deafening now—scraping, tapping, and soft, guttural growls that seemed to come from inside the walls themselves. She sat in her chair, eyes wide, unable to tear herself away from the wall, waiting for whatever was on the other side to reveal itself.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang, followed by a voice—faint, yet distinct.

“Help me.”

Ava screamed, her heart slamming against her ribs as she scrambled to her feet. The walls seemed to tremble as if they were alive, shifting and pulsating. The voice came again, closer this time.

“Please… help me…”

Without thinking, Ava grabbed a crowbar from the toolbox under her kitchen sink and began hacking at the wall, desperation building inside her. The air was thick with tension, and the temperature in the room dropped to freezing.

Finally, with a final strike, the drywall gave way, crumbling to the floor in a cloud of dust. Ava gasped in horror as a dark, narrow space revealed itself—barely big enough for a person to crawl through. Her flashlight illuminated something horrifying: a pair of cold, empty eyes staring out from the darkness, unblinking.

The eyes were attached to a man, his face gaunt and skeletal, his body twisted and contorted in unnatural ways. He had been there for years, trapped within the walls, his skin pale and stretched tight over his bones.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, a soft, guttural sound escaped his throat—a low moan of agony. Ava stepped back, her pulse racing, the room spinning. The man’s eyes began to glisten with something darker, something malevolent, and he reached out toward her with skeletal hands.

Before she could react, the man’s form dissolved into the wall, leaving behind nothing but a lingering chill and the faintest whisper.

“Thank you.”

Ava never slept again in that apartment. The scratching noises continued for weeks, louder than before, now accompanied by low whispers that crawled into her ears at night. But the most terrifying thing of all was the sense that she was never alone in her own home, that the walls themselves had a memory, and that they would never forget the horrors they had witnessed.

The landlord disappeared shortly after. The building was abandoned once again, left to rot in silence.

But Ava knew better than anyone—the walls were never truly empty.

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