Night settled like a held breath over the house.
The lights were out, the new walls gleamed faintly with the sheen of fresh paint, and silence pooled in every corner.
Upstairs, the girl lay on the bed Ethan had prepared for her. The sheets smelled of soap and something faintly metallic. She told herself it was the bandage on her leg.
Sleep would not come.
Every time her eyes closed, she saw the red light of that other place—the pulsing walls, the thing that called itself the heart.
She tried to steady her breathing, counting the seconds between heartbeats, but the house had its own rhythm now, a soft pulse she could feel through the mattress.
Then came the sound.
At first it was faint, a whisper too small to name.
Scratch—scratch—scratch.
Her eyes opened.
She listened.
The sound came again, sharper this time, from beneath her. From the living room.
Ethan was sleeping down there.
She pushed herself upright, wincing as her leg protested. The clock on the nightstand said 2:37 a.m. She waited, thinking it might stop. Houses creak. Pipes groan. Wind brushes wood.
But this wasn't that.
This was deliberate. Rhythmic. Too steady.
Scratch—pause—scratch-scratch—pause—scratch.
Her breath misted slightly in the cold. She hadn't noticed it getting colder until now.
She reached for her sword out of instinct, fingers brushing the worn hilt. Then she stood, balancing carefully on her good leg. The floorboards under her feet were warm—too warm.
The scratching stopped.
Silence.
She waited, every muscle locked. Slowly, she stepped into the hall. The air there was heavier, and a faint hum seemed to rise from the walls, like distant voices murmuring just below hearing.
It's nothing, she told herself. Just the house settling.
Then the scratching returned—louder, faster, a frenzy behind plaster.
Downstairs.
She moved.
Each step down the staircase sounded thunderous in her ears. The railing was cold beneath her hand, the wood smooth as bone. Halfway down, she paused, listening again.
The sound wasn't at floor level anymore. It was higher—on the living-room wall, near where Ethan slept.
She could hear him breathing softly. He hadn't stirred.
How can he sleep through this?
The scratching grew violent, as if claws were carving words she couldn't read. Paint chips fluttered down the wall like dry snow.
She whispered, "Ethan…"
No answer.
Her instincts screamed to wake him, but something colder urged caution. She stepped off the last stair. The living room was dim, the only light spilling from the moon through half-drawn curtains.
The couch lay in shadow, Ethan curled under a thin blanket. Beyond him, the far wall shuddered with motion—the sound coming from inside it.
She limped closer. The air smelled wrong, like rust and wet soil.
She pressed her hand to the wall.
It was warm. Then, suddenly, it moved—a tremor beneath her palm, as if something inside was breathing.
She pulled back sharply, heart hammering.
The scratching stopped again.
Now there was only a slow, dragging sound. Something sliding down the inner boards, tracing the line between ceiling and floor.
She backed away. Her heel caught the edge of the rug; she nearly fell.
From behind the wall came a muffled thump, like a body hitting wood.
The couch creaked. Ethan shifted but didn't wake.
"Ethan," she whispered again, louder this time.
The thumping ceased. For a heartbeat there was nothing.
Then came a single, deliberate scrape—long and deep—from one corner of the wall to the other. The sound traveled like a blade carving through meat.
Her throat went dry. She gripped her sword tighter, lifting it slightly though she knew steel meant little against what lived here.
The temperature dropped again. The window glass fogged over, letters forming briefly in the mist before vanishing. She couldn't read them.
Get out, maybe.
Or stay.
She couldn't tell.
The quiet pressed in until even her pulse felt loud.
And then—footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. From behind the door leading to the hallway.
She turned toward it, raising the blade. The knob rattled once.
The scratching on the wall began again, faster now, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat.
She took one shaking breath, lifted the sword higher, and stepped forward.
The knob turned.
The door creaked open.
A shape filled the frame—tall, human, shadowed.
She swung, a sharp flash of steel—
"Whoa, whoa, whoa—!"
Ethan stumbled backward, hands up, eyes wide and wild with sleep. "Hey! It's me! I heard something—don't stab me!"
The sound stopped instantly.
The house went still.
She froze, sword mid-air, every muscle locked.
For a long moment neither spoke. Only the slow drip of something unseen echoed from the wall.
Ethan blinked blearily. "Why are you holding a sword at me?"
She lowered it slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "Something was inside the wall."
He frowned, still half-asleep. "Inside the—what?"
She looked back. The wall was pristine again. No scratches. No marks. Nothing.
The air smelled of curry and paint.
Her pulse refused to slow. "It was here," she said. "I heard it."
Ethan rubbed his eyes, yawning. "Okay… maybe the pipes. Or rats. Or—look, can we panic in the morning?"
He started toward the couch again, muttering.
She didn't answer. She watched the wall, the faint shimmer that ran across it like something exhaling beneath the surface.
When he collapsed back onto the couch and closed his eyes, she stayed standing in the dark, sword in hand, waiting for the sound to return.
It didn't.
But the wall, for just an instant, smiled.