Whispers in the Wallpaper

Whispers in the Wallpaper

Emma had never liked silence. It made her feel like the world had stopped listening. But after the chaos of the city, her therapist recommended isolation—a “reset.”

So she moved to the countryside. A quiet, two-story house nestled in the hills, untouched for years. Cheap, old, and—according to the locals—“best left alone.”

Emma didn’t believe in rumors. She believed in space. Peace. Healing.

That was before the whispers started.

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The house had character: floral wallpaper peeling at the edges, wooden floors that creaked with every step, and a narrow staircase that curved like a spine. But it was livable. A fixer-upper.

She painted. She read. She drank tea at the window where ivy brushed against the glass.

And for a while, it felt like a retreat.

Until the third night.

3:07 a.m. — Emma awoke suddenly. Not to a sound, but to a feeling. Like something was watching her from the wall. She glanced around her room—nothing but faded wallpaper.

But when she leaned in to examine it, she froze.

There were words—barely visible beneath the print.

“Don’t listen.”

She brushed her fingers against them. The pattern shifted as if something moved beneath it. The wall felt… warm.

She told herself it was paint fumes. Delirium. Nothing else.

Until the voices came.

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It began with a whisper from the hallway.

She would lie in bed and hear her name spoken—faintly, like wind brushing fabric.

“Emma…”

She’d sit up. Nothing.

She pressed her ear to the wall.

“He sees you.”

The next morning, she tore the wallpaper from that wall.

Beneath it: more writing. Scratched into the plaster, deep and panicked.

“Cover it back.”

Another night passed. More whispers. They seemed to grow louder the more she uncovered the walls.

It was like the house was alive, and its skin was the wallpaper. Every layer she peeled back revealed warnings—pleas—screams.

One night, she found a child’s handprint beneath the wallpaper in the guest room.

Small. Red. Fresh.

She vomited in the sink.

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The townspeople avoided her. Even the man who sold her the house refused to speak when she asked about its history.

An old woman at the market finally whispered, “That house was never empty. It just stopped speaking for a while.”

Emma tried to leave.

Car wouldn’t start.

Phone had no signal.

That night, the whispers turned into laughter.

Not cheerful.

Mocking.

Every mirror in the house fogged with breath. She hadn’t breathed near them.

Then came the knocking—from inside the walls.

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She couldn’t sleep.

Not because of fear—but because of the voices. They no longer whispered. They conversed.

They chanted.

In languages she didn’t know.

The floorboards groaned even when she didn’t walk on them.

The lights flickered when she cried.

One morning, she woke to find the wallpaper restored. Perfect. Fresh. As though it had never been torn.

But now, the pattern moved. Swirled slowly. Like breathing.

She touched it.

It giggled.

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She started writing notes to herself.

• Don’t touch the walls.

• Don’t answer your name.

• Don’t listen after 3 a.m.

But the house started writing back.

On her mirror: “You’re ours now.”

On her arms: “Inside out.”

In her voice: “Let us out.”

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Emma’s final night was filled with silence.

Too silent.

She thought maybe it was over. Maybe she had gone mad and it was burning itself out.

Until she saw the shadow—trapped inside the wall.

It pounded with invisible fists from beneath the wallpaper, distorting the surface like water. A face pressed against it from inside—her face.

It screamed without sound.

Her reflection in the mirror didn’t move when she did.

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The house was found abandoned weeks later.

Clean. Empty. No signs of Emma.

Except for a faint outline in the master bedroom wallpaper—a woman’s shape, arms raised, mouth open.

The new owners painted over it.

And at 3:07 a.m., they hear whispers too.

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Caption: She thought the house was quiet. But it was only holding its breath.