Whispers Behind the Wall

by [Amin ullah]

The house on Fenwick Lane had been empty for twelve years before I moved in. The kind of place that neighbors avoided discussing, even in passing. When I signed the papers, the realtor smiled too tightly and said, “Just a fixer-upper. Great bones.”

She wasn’t lying.

The bones of the house were indeed strong. But bones are only part of a body. And this one had a pulse I couldn’t ignore.

It started the first night.

I hadn’t even unpacked. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by half-unopened boxes and the hum of silence. Around 2 a.m., I awoke—not suddenly, but like being slowly pulled up from the bottom of a lake. The room was cold, far colder than it should’ve been. My breath fogged in front of me, even though the thermostat said 68.

Then I heard it.

A faint voice. No… not even a voice. A murmur. It was coming from the wall.

At first, I thought it was plumbing—air in the pipes or settling noises. But it came again. A low, deliberate string of words, too garbled to understand but unmistakably human.

I pressed my ear to the wall.

It stopped.

The next morning, I searched the adjacent room. Nothing unusual—just a dusty storage closet with cracked tiles and cobwebs. But when I knocked on the wall, it sounded hollow. Not drywall-hollow. Hidden-space-hollow.

I called a contractor. He came, looked bored, and said, “Old houses settle weird. Sound travels through studs, vents. Probably squirrels.”

But that night, I heard it again. Only this time, it said my name.

“Daniel…”

A soft whisper, almost tender, as though whoever was speaking didn’t want to frighten me. But I was frozen. My body rigid, my skin crawling with the impossible.

I told myself it was a dream. Sleep paralysis. Auditory hallucinations.

But deep down, I knew better.

Over the next few days, I became obsessed. I spent hours sitting in that room, waiting. Listening. Tapping on the wall, asking questions like a lunatic.

“Who are you?”

“Why are you here?”

“What do you want?”

Sometimes, the wall would respond—not always with words, but with movement. A subtle thump. A creak. Once, the sound of faint breathing.

I tore away part of the wall in frustration. Behind it, nothing but wood and dust. No secret room. No evidence. Just the suffocating knowledge that something was there and I couldn’t reach it.

My sleep became fractured. My mind too.

I started recording the nights. Hours of silence… then one night, the tape caught it:

“Please... help me.”

The voice was clearer than before. Female. Fragile. Desperate.

I played the clip over and over, trying to make out the rest. There was something behind her voice—another sound, like someone weeping far away.

That’s when I found the newspaper clippings.

I wasn’t looking for them. They were stuffed in a manila envelope buried in a kitchen drawer. Yellowed, brittle, and smelling like mildew.

Local Woman Vanishes – Husband Claims Mental Breakdown

Search Called Off – No Signs of Struggle

Husband Moves After Wife Declared Dead in Absentia

Her name was Elise Hartwell. She lived in this house. Her husband, Victor, was the only suspect—but nothing ever stuck.

In the final article, there was a photo of them standing on the porch.

My porch.

She looked… haunted. Thin. Eyes empty. Like someone already disappearing.

I contacted the records office. Renovation permits showed that the back wall of the storage closet had been rebuilt in 2009. Reinforced. Insulated. Just before Victor moved.

And I understood.

The wall wasn’t just hiding sounds.

It was hiding her.

That night, I sat in the storage room with a crowbar.

The whispers came stronger, as if they knew. As if they were urging me on.

I tore down the paneling, layer by layer, until I found the crawl space. Narrow. Stifling.

And at the very back—bones.

Curled in on themselves. Dressed in the remains of a pale blue nightgown. Her fingers clawed into the wooden floor like she’d tried to dig her way out.

I dropped the crowbar.

The air shifted. Warmer. Lighter.

Behind me, I heard it one last time. A whisper—soft, and full of gratitude:

“Thank you.”

I called the police. There was an investigation. Headlines. Forensics. Closure.

Victor Hartwell was found living under a new name in another state. He was arrested. Convicted. It was all over the news.

People called me a hero.

But I know the truth.

I wasn’t saving someone.

I was just listening.

Somewhere between the cracks of this world and the next, there are voices. Lost, forgotten, waiting.

And now, every time I enter an old house, I put my hand on the wall.

And I wait for the whispers to return.