The Watcher in the Walls

The old house was a bargain, a little too good to be true. My parents saw character; I saw cobwebs and shadows that danced in my peripheral vision. The first week was filled with the sounds of a new home: creaking floors, settling foundations. But then came the other sounds. A soft scratching from inside the walls at night. A faint whisper that seemed to follow me from room to room.

My parents couldn't hear it. "It's just the old pipes," my dad would say. But I knew it was something else. I started seeing things—a flicker of movement in a dark hallway, a face in the reflection of a window that wasn't mine. The house felt alive, and it was watching us. I found a hidden journal in the attic, written by a child who lived here decades ago. It spoke of 'the watcher in the walls,' a friend who would talk to him, who would protect him. The last entry was a single, terrifying sentence: "He doesn't want us to leave."

Panic set in. The scratching became louder, more insistent. Doors would slam shut on their own. Objects would move. The whispers turned into my name, a cold, raspy sound that made my skin crawl. We weren't guests in this house; we were captives. The watcher wasn't a friend. It was a predator, and the walls were its hunting ground.