It’s midnight. I hear it again.
In the dim light of the apartment, I walk out out to the kitchen and drink a glass of cold milk. It always calms me down. The ticking of the wall clock is lost among the goosebump-inducing sounds.
I flinch. I set the glass down.
With measured steps, I walk over to my bedroom wall. The one standing on the left side of my bed. It’s yellow. Empty. No pictures, no decorations. Because this wall is different.
It started a few months after I moved in. I began noticing phantom whispers. I could never make out the words. At first, I thought it was filtering through from the neighbors. But when I started hearing it twenty-four hours a day—even when they weren’t home—I began to fear that I was losing my mind.
I’m exhausted. I’m hallucinating.
Finally, I realized: the sounds are coming from this wall. Or from behind it.
When I cautiously asked the neighbors, they had no idea what I was talking about. And worst of all: no one else hears them except me. No neighbor, no friend. No one. Just me.
So, I thought it best to keep quiet about it.
But I’m at a loss.
During the day, it’s still bearable. But at night… I’m starting to get seriously afraid. To panic.
To make matters worse, a back injury has kept me stuck at home. I barely eat anymore. I avoid people. Insomnia tortures me.
I stop in front of the large, rectangular mirror in my room. I’ve lost weight. My skin is pale, with dark circles stretching under my eyes.
I sigh.
I can hear it even now.
I know the wall is listening, too. It’s watching. I know it. I feel it. With every single move I make.
The thought of tearing it down has even crossed my mind. But I only rent the apartment.
What should I do?
Prayer doesn't help. Nothing helps.
I step closer to the wall. Placing my ear against it, I listen.
Distant, yet close whispers. But I don't understand them.
My body is trembling.
Maybe they are doing the same thing. Pressing their ears to the wall, listening… and whispering.
A cold sweat runs down my back.
I hear my name.
Clearly.
They are repeating it like a mantra.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the window, where snowflakes are slowly falling outside.
I close my eyes.
"What do you want?" I ask in despair. "Why won't you just shut up? Why are you torturing me?"
I must be going mad.
The walls have ears.
How many times did I hear this phrase from my mother… but only now do I truly understand it.
And it doesn’t just have ears.
It has a consciousness.
It sees. It listens. It watches. It waits.
It speaks to us.
Tears stream down my face. I feel them surrounding me.
There is no way out.
It’s no use running.
There is nowhere to go.
I bury my face in my hands. My stomach knots up. I light a cigarette. The smoke creeps slowly through the air.
I go back to the dark kitchen and drink the rest of the milk.
The clock shows half past twelve.
I sigh.
That is when the decision is born inside me.
I will buy the apartment.
And I will tear down the wall.
I want to know what is behind it.
On a cold December morning, the workers begin tearing down the wall, under the sharp glares of the neighbors.
My heart is pounding in my throat.
When they finish, the workers look at each other. They say something, but I’m not paying attention.
Mechanically, I step closer.
I look behind the wall.
I freeze.
One of the workers calls the police.
The other steps up to me.
"A woman's body, sir..." he says quietly.
That woman...
My mother, who disappeared two years ago.
My voice catches in my throat.
She is lying there. In a fetal position.
I clap my hand over my mouth. I begin to retch.
Her body is pale. Her clothes are torn.
She is wearing the same thing she wore when she went missing.
On her neck, a deep cut.
From ear to ear.