Speaker 1: I didn't have a lot of options after the layoff,
I burned through most of my savings in under six months,
My lease was up, rented, jumped again, and I didn't
exactly have stella credit or a fallback plan. What I
had was a car full of boxes, a suitcase, and
a laptop that would only boot up when plugged in
at a forty five degree angle. So when I saw
the ad quiet, single bedroom detached utilities included six hundred
dollars per month, I messaged the number before I even
finished reading the rest. The landlord didn't ask any questions.
He didn't care about credit or asked for a background check.
All he wanted was the first month's rent in cash,
which I withdrew across three ATMs to avoid alert in
the bank that I was nearly empty. When I pulled up,
the place looked decent, I guess, old but not falling apart,
a single level structure with chipped paint, crooked porch light,
and a lived in smell that clung to the air
like wet paper. He handed me the keys, with the
lease still half filled out, said don't worry about the quirks.
She's old, but she'll hold up. Then got in his
truck and left. Inside was smaller than the photos. The
living room bled straight into the kitchenette. The floor groaned
even when I wasn't moving, but it was quiet, and
it was mine. The bedroom was plain, three white walls
and one with wall paper floral and faded. It looked
like something out of an estate sail. It was the
only decorative thing in the house, and even then, just barely,
I ran my hand over it. The paper was smooth,
no tears, but old. I figured maybe it was left
over from a remodel that never got finished. I'd tear
it down and paint it later, add it to the list.
That night, I set up a mattress on the floor,
shoved my boxes into the corners, and fell asleep faster
than I expected. But around three a m I woke
to a sound behind me. It was a soft scritch,
scritch scretch, faint but steady, right behind the wall papered wall.
I listened for a while, eyes still closed. Figured who
was mice or maybe pipes? Who was an old house
after all? I turned over, pulled the blanket tighter, and
made a note to buy traps in the morning. The
next day was quiet. I spent most of it trying
to make the place feel less like a Craigslist trap
and more a place where a person actually lives. I
unpacked a little, stacked books I probably wouldn't read on
a bent shelf, rearranged the two pieces of furniture I
owned a folding table and chair to create the illusion
of space. There was no internet yet, so I sat
outside for an hour trying to poach someone's Wi Fi signal.
No luck. I eventually tethered to my phone until the
data cap begged for mercy. I made a sad pot
of pasta and ate it over the sink, the kind
of meal that feels lonelier than it should. Still, it
was a roof, it was shelter, and I hadn't had
to beg anyone for it. That counted as something. That night,
I slept with the window cracked. The house got muggy
without air flow. A few bugs made it in, but
nothing worse than a moth dive bombing my lamp. I
was starting to feel like I could make this work
until I woke up around two thirty a m. At first,
I didn't know what pulled me out of sleep. No
loud noises or scratching, this time, just a feeling like
my eyes had opened on their own, like something was waiting.
The room was dim, street light through the blinds. I
turned onto my back and caught it immediately. The top
corner of the wallpaper, maybe six inches wide, had peeled
itself away from the wall. I sat up, staring at it.
The paper hung there like it had been carefully unglued.
I got up, flicked on the light and touched it.
It was dry, not soft or damp. No reason it
should have came loose at all, I muttered to myself.
Found some tape in my box of random crap and
stuck the edge back down. Smoothed it flat with my palm.
Maybe the humidity loosened it, old paste, cheap materials, whatever.
I went back to bed, rolled over, and tried to
ignore the knot forming in my stomach. Ten minutes later
I checked again. It had peeled back, same corner, same
exact fold. This time, the curl was cleaner, not like
gravity had pulled it, more like it had been pinched
than rolled. I didn't touch it. I stared at it
for a while, took out my phone and snapped a photo,
then taped it again. Firmer this time, pressed harder. I
took another photo, same angle, ten minutes later, pealed again.
I flipped through the photos. In the first that the
wallpaper was flat. In the second, the corner curled downward,
as if it never stayed down at all. I told
myself it was just bad tape or bad luck, or
that I was overtired and didn't press hard enough. But
part of me was worried, not for anything grand, but
for my deposit I would desperately need back if I
were to leave. A few evenings later, I sat on
the edge of my mattress and stared at the wall
like it owed me money. The wallpaper had peeled back
again more. This time the top third of one sheet
hung free, drooping like a tired eyelid. Same corner, same precision,
Still no damage, just peeled clean. It was starting to
feel less like wear and tear and more like intention.
I told myself, if I was going to keep living here,
I couldn't let every weird creak or draft spin me out.
So I got up, walked over and peeled it further.
Might as well see what I was dealing with behind it.
The dry wall wasn't what I expected, It should have
been flat, maybe a little dusty. Instead, it was scarred. Long,
deep vertical grooves ran down the surface. The scratches were spaced,
deliberate and repetitive, like someone had dragged nails through it
in slow, meditative strokes. Over and over. I ran my
hand over them. The surface was warm, definitely not dry
wall temperature. It was probably bad insulation or an old
heat line behind the panel. I'd seen worse and cheaper places. Still,
I let the wallpaper fall back into place and didn't
tape at this time. That night, I had one of
those half sleep, sweat stained dreams, the kind of your
brain just loops the day's stresses into something heavy and wart.
In the dream, I was in bed, just like I
actually was, and I could hear faint, rhythmic breathing, as
if someone standing inches away. I woke up, drenched, blanket
kicked off, jaw tight, and heart racing. Reflexively, I looked
to the wall. The wallpaper was peeled back down to
shoulder height, now a smooth, clean fold, with no tears
or flakes on the floor, like it had waited for
me to fall asleep. Frustrated, I grabbed a stapler from
a box and slammed in a fresh strip. I staple
the paper flat again and again, all the way around
the edge. Then I shoved the bookshelf over, pressed it
flush to the wall. Boxes and all. I didn't even
care what was inside them, just needed weight, pressure distance.
When I stepped back, I realized I was shaking. I
felt like I wasn't fixing it to preserve the apartment.
I was fixing it to keep something out. By the
next night, the wallpaper had peeled so far down it
looked like a curtain. The entire sheet sagged off the
wall in one long, lazy flap. I woke up to
the sound of the edge brushing the bugshelf, a faint
papery sound like it was reaching down to tap me.
That was the final straw. Around noon, after pacing the
house and staring at the wall like it might blink,
I gave in and called the landlord. He answered on
the third ring with a distress did yeah. I explained
the issue as calmly as I could. The wallpaper's peeling
is worse every day. He won't stay down. I've tried
tape staples, it's just not holding. Long pause. Then still
good paper, he said, just needs repasting, been up since
the eighties, original install Italian import, actually real quality stuff,
like it was proud of it, like the history made
it my problem. Right, But it won't stick. I said,
It's not damaged, it's just coming off the wall completely.
So repastde it, he said, tone already slipping toward irritated.
You think I'm going to replace it just because you
can't work a glue brush. I blinked, Can I just
take it down? Painted over? I don't really care about
the wallpaper, I just want absolutely not. His voice sharpened,
like I suggested knocking down a wall. That wallpaper costs money,
he said, real money. You tear it, you pay for it,
You remove it, you pay for it, you paint over it,
you're definitely paying for it. I sat there, gripping my phone,
staring at the opposite wall while he kept talking. Last
guy in there tried the same thing. He muttered, said
it kept coming up, got fed up, left without notice.
Some people just don't know how to maintain a property.
I'm not your mother, and this ain't a hotel. I
clinched my jaw. I'm not asking you to redo the place.
I'm just saying something's not right with the wall, that
there are marks on it. Then stop looking under it,
he snapped. You keep picking at things, they're gonna come apart.
Just pasted back. It's not complicated. He hung up before
I could respond. I sat on the edge of the bed,
phoned still in my hand and stared at the wall.
The wallpaper had started to curl again. I watched it
happen in real time, the edge slowly peeling back with
a sluggish rhythm of something that knew. It had me,
like it had heard me, like it had won. By
the day after, the entire top sheet had drooped down
like a curtain. Swe forgot to tie back and folded
over itself, soft and slack, like skin trying to slough.
I stood there staring at it for a long time,
holding the new tupper paste in one hand and a
brush in the other. I'd picked it up that afternoon,
muttering to myself the whole drive cheaper than losing a deposit.
Just paste it back, not complicated. I repeated that to
myself like a mantra. Now, just paste it back. But
before I did, and figured I should wipe down the
surface underneath in case it was damp. Or moldy or
whatever was making the paper come loose. I didn't want
to trap anything wet between layers. That'd just make it worse.
I peeled the sheep further to expose the wall, slow
and careful, the way you open a closet you weren't
sure was empty. The dry wall underneath looked the same
as before, pale, slightly uneven, still marked with as long
faint grooves, the ones I told myself were left over
from some lazy renovation job. But then I saw a
spot about the size of a nickel, maybe quarter sized.
It was dark, circular and slightly raised. It's that long
on the wall, just beneath, with the folded rested as
if waiting for light. I leaned in, squinted, frowned. Mold.
It had to be. The house always smelt vaguely damp,
especially in the mornings, and I'd been keeping the windows
shut tight most nights. Maybe the airflow was bad. Old wood,
old paint, things sweat when they rot. I muttered under
my breath and went to the kitchen. Grabbed a sponge
and some all purpose cleaner, nothing fancy, just whatever was
under the sink. When I moved in, I sprayed the
spot and pressed the sponge to it. Gave it a
few hard circles. The black didn't lift. I scrubbed harder,
switching to the rough side. The edges started to smear.
At first I thought it was working, but then I
realized the smear wasn't faded, it was spreading. The edges
stretched thin like veins. Little black strands spieder it outward,
low contrast against the off white drywall, branching like cracks
and eyes. They didn't flake or bubble like mold. They
just grew, pulled out from the center like roots searching
for water. I dropped the sponge in the bucket and stared.
The shape widened, crept upward, slow controlled. The veins bent inward.
Five streaks curling back towards the center arched evenly, spaced,
almost like I didn't want to finish the thought, but
my brain did it for me fingers. I leaned in,
unwilling and unable to stop. The black lines formed a
handprint just slightly large than my own splayed flat, as
if someone had pressed their palm against the wall from
the other side, and it wasn't paint. The wall felt
warm beneath it, the noticeable warmth that was stronger on
the bare wall, like skin under a fever. I stepped
back too fast, heart thudding like it was trying to
outrun my ribs. I stood there for a second, frozen
between fight and flight. Then something switched in my brain,
not a scream, but instinct. I grabbed the brush, scooped
out the paste, slapped it over the shape without looking,
hands moving fast, clumsy, without waiting for it to dry.
I grabbed the sheet of wallpaper, lined it up, and
pressed it down with both palms, smoothing from the center out.
My breath was shallow, my chest tight. I pressed harder,
stabled the edges for good measure. Then I stepped back.
The floral pattern covered everything, the hand, the black, the
warm It looked normal again, just old, tacky wallpaper in
a quiet, forgettable house. I stood there staring at it,
and to my knees started to shake, and even then
I stayed longer. It wasn't me admiring my work, but
because I thought I saw the wallpaper shift, just slightly,
like something behind it had moved. I didn't sleep much
after that. Every time I closed my eyes I saw
the pattern of the wallpaper pulsing behind my eyelids, floral
shapes shifting in the dark, curling open and shot like lungs.
By morning, I convinced myself it was exhaustion that the spot,
the warmth, all of it had an explanation. I just
needed some one else to look at it, someone responsible,
because despite everything I had done, it started peeling again.
So I called the landlord. He picked up and the
third ring voice rough without put on annoyance people use
when they want to make you feel like an inconvenience. Yea, hey,
it's me from the rental and Ashbury. I said, the
wallpaper's still coming off worse than before. The's a. I
stopped myself. I almost said hand print. There's a dark
spot underneath. I thought it was mould, but it won't
come up. The wall feels warm too, He sighed, loud,
drawn out. Geez, you sound like the last guy that
made me pause. The last tenant. Yeah him, same thing.
Wall's this noises that kept calling like I was his
damned building manager. I told him to stop fussing, but
he wouldn't. Eventually broke lease and split. I filed for damages,
ruined his credit. He said it like he was proud, right,
I said, trying to calm down. Well, this isn't about credit.
The wall's doing something. It's look, he interrupted, Just scrub
it with mold remover and fix it yourself. That's what
normal people do when something's dirty. You can handle that,
can't you. The tone wasn't even subtle, any more condescending, mean,
like he wanted me to lose my temper so he
could hang up smugly. I swallowed hard. I've already tried
cleaning it. Then scrub harder. He actually laughed, a low,
wheezing sound that hit me right in the chest. If
you're not capable of basic upkeep, I can find someone
who is. Don't make this difficult. And that was it. Click.
I sat there with the phone still to my ear,
listening to the dead air for a long time. I
didn't move. The house was quiet, but it didn't feel quiet.
The silence had a texture to it, thick, waiting, like
the walls were listening to see what I'd do next.
I looked toward the bedroom. The wallpaper was already curling again, slow, deliberate,
a flower unfolding. That was when it hit me there
wasn't going to be any help. No maintenance man, no inspection,
no landlord riding in with keys and concern. It was
just me, me, the house and the thing behind the wall.
I had to fix this by any means. So I
drove to the hardware store just before closing and walked
straight to the adhesive asle. I didn't even bother with
the wallpaper pay section. I knew that wasn't going to
cut it. I found what I was looking for on
the bottom shelf, Industrial construction adhesive, the kind used the
bond dry walter cinder block, the kind meant to last decade.
I carried it up to the counter, set it down
like I was buying AMMO. The guy the register gave
it a glance, then looked up at me. You know
this stuff's permanent, right, he said, Once it's on, it's on.
I nodded good. He didn't say anything after that, just
scanned it and bagged it up. Back home, I changed
into clothes I didn't care about and opened the top
on the bedroom floor. The chemical reek hit me immediately,
sharp and metallic, with that sour undertone, like burning plastic.
My eyes watered, my throat stung. The wallpaper was hanging
lower than before. Not just curling, now sagging, drooping, like
it had weight behind it, like it was being pushed
from the other side. I ignored it, laid out my tools,
took a breath. Then I went to war. I slathered
on the adhesive with the stiffest brush. I had no
caution this time, no furss, just heavy handed strokes from
top to bottom, smearing it into every crease, corner, and
bare spot. I worked fast, like if I slowed down
the wall might notice. The past bubbled as it spread
as coalk and twice as sticky. It sizzled slightly where
it met the dry wall. I told myself it was
just a chemical reaction. When I finished, I lifted the
sheet of wallpaper and pressed it down, firm and steady
both palms. I held it like I was sealing a wound.
Flattened it hard, smoothed out every ripple, every fold. I
could feel the heat of the wall behind it. Not
warm like before, but reactive, twitchy. I prayed I hadn't
accidentally set off a chemical reaction. I held into my arms,
ached until it felt like the glue had gripped for good.
Then I stepped back. The wall looked normal again, just old,
ugly wallpaper patterned with those delicate little roses that now
felt like tiny eyes, and for the first time in days,
I let myself breathe. It stayed that way for a
few hours, no pealing, no smells, no movement. I ate
dinner standing up in the kitchen, keeping the bedroom in
my peripheral vision, like it might sneak up on me,
but nothing happened. Around nine p m. I walked past
the doorway and froze. There was a shape on the wall,
faint but wrong. I flicked on the light, A bulge
right in the center of the wall, papered wall. It
was subtle, barely curved at first, the kind of distortion
you mistake for bad lighting or a paint bubble. But
I hadn't painted anything, and it wasn't there an hour ago.
I stepped closer, didn't touch it. The paper wasn't loose,
it had come and stuck. The wall itself was starting
to push outward. It was swelling from the inside, like
something didn't like being sealed in. By morning, it wasn't
subtle anymore. The bulge in the wall had grown no
longer a ripple or a bump, but a full swelling
at the center of the wallpapered section. It bowed out
like something pressing against the balloon from the inside. Still
no tears or pealing. The pattern remained pristine, perfectly intact,
but the whole thing looked like it was holding its breath.
I stood a few feet back, just staring, trying to
decide whether to leave it alone or touch it. Part
of me wanted to pack a bag and never look back.
Another part wanted to finish the job whenever. That meant now.
I stepped forward slowly. The air felt the closer I got.
I reached out and pressed a hand against the center
of the bulge. It gave under my palm, soft elastic.
It felt wrong, not like anything a wall should feel like.
It was like pushing against muscle. I pressed harder, and
then it pushed back, just slightly enough to let me
know it knew I was there. I stumbled backward, breath
caught in my throat. Geez, I didn't think. I grabbed
my phone and called the landlord. He picked up, groggy, irritated.
What now there's damage? The wall swollen, the section I fixed,
it's ballooning out like something's behind it. That got his
attention damage, he repeated. I could hear his posture shift
through the phone. How bad did you mess with the wall?
What did you use? I used the adhesive, I said,
construction grade. The wallpaper wouldn't stay down, so I oh,
he cut in. Suddenly, Chipper, you used the wrong stuff.
I could hear the smile behind his voice. Yeah, see
that's on you. If the drywall's compromised, I'd have to
replace the whole section, and that ain't cheap. Not to
mention my nice wallpaper. You told me to fix it,
I said to paste it. You used industrial glue. Big difference.
That's a liability issue now. I started to argue, but
he rolled over me. I'll come by tomorrow, bring a contractor.
We'll take a look and get you an estimate for repairs. Click,
no goodbye, no concern, just the sound of a trap
snapping shot. I lowered the phone and stared at the
bloated curve in the wall. The Flora wallpaper stretched like
skin over a bruise, and for the first time I
realized this wasn't just going to cost me money. I
was in something I didn't understand, and I wasn't sure
it would let me out. The landlord's truck rumbled into
the driveway the next morning, followed by a dented van
that looked like it hadn't passed inspection in years. He
climbed out first, crisp polo shirt, tucked into slacks that
didn't fit right, Sunglasses perched on top of his head
like he thought they made him look important. The man
who followed was built like a refrigerator in overalls. He
didn't say anything, just gave a short nod before following
the landlord up the steps. From the way they go
reeted each other, the casual laugh, the slap on the shoulder.
I could tell this wasn't the first time they'd done
this routine. The landlord barely said aloe before brushing past
me into the bedroom. And there it was. The wall
bowed and taught, the floral patterns stretched thin. He gave
a long, exaggerated whistle. Ah, he said, rubbing his chin. Yeah,
there'll be a problem. The contractor nodded, already wrung his
hand along the bulge. Why be a moisture pocket, he said,
could be pressure building under it. He turned to me
with that fake professional smile. If it bursts, that's an emergency.
Repair could run new thousands. The landlord glanced back at me.
Lucky for you, I'm being reasonable, he said. Let's just
take a look. I clenched my fists at my sides.
Watching them together, the two of them, smirking, talking in
coded contractor language I barely understood, made me want to
tear the whole wall down myself. They didn't care about
fixing it. They cared about owning me. The landlord stepped closer,
pressing a hand flat against the bulge. Ooh, it's soft,
he said, grinning. You feel that that's the adhesive reacting
to humidity. The contractor joined him, pressed a finger into
the curve. He chuckled. Low, yeah, he said, could be
pressure building under it. Best not to poke it too.
He pushed harder much. The wall moved, not the wallpaper,
the whole wall. It shifted under their hands, like something
flexing be the surface. The landlord frowned, What the hell?
Then it rippled. The bulge pulls outward once the flower
patterns stretched so tight it almost vanished. A sound followed,
a wet, sticky pop, like a blister bursting, and then
the wall exploded. It happened fast, too fast for my
brain to catch up. The wall burst, not the plaster cracking,
a wallpaper tearing. It ruptured like something inside wanted out.
A spray of thick, black liquid splattered across the Landlord's chest,
soaking through his shirt and spotting his face. He staggered back, coughing,
eyes wide in confusion. What the hell? Then a hand
shot out, Not human, not even cold. It was slick,
the color of wet tar, and shaped almost like a
person's but too long. The fingers tapered into jagged, uneven tips,
not nails hooks. It slammed into his chest with a
wet thud. He screamed high and sharp as the thing
wrapped around his torso, digging in deep. His shirt tore,
then his skin. The claws sank in like meat ucks,
and then, without hesitation, it pulled. The contractor lurched forward,
grabbing the landlord's arm. Wait, but it was too late.
The pole was so fast I heard the snapping of
bones and the ripping of flesh before even hit the wall.
The wall didn't open wider yet the hand managed to
pull The landlord threw in one yank, violent and messy
visceraus squirted where excess skin limbs caught before entry. The
Landlord's body folded, compressing unnaturally, bones snapping, his limbs twisting
inward like wet cardboard. One's shoulder slipped in, then his chest,
his face, his mouth still open, and a soundless scream,
all in one motion. And then he was gone, all
of him, gone through a space barely large enough for
a child to crawl through. His keys hid the floor
and clattered, spinning in a red puddle. The contractor stumbled backward,
face white lips, moving without sound. I didn't think I ran.
We both did down the hall, hoping the daylight would
save us somehow. Then stupidly I looked back. The bedroom
door still hung open. The sunlight reached just far enough
inside to light the wall where the bulge had been,
where the thing had come out. The wallpaper was flat again,
perfectly smooth, just one messy red ring in the pattern,
right at chest height. I escaped behind the contractor. I
didn't stop until I was halfway to the road, handshaking,
vision swimming, chest heaving. The cops didn't believe us, not really.
They showed up thirty minutes after the nine one one call,
two cruisers and unmarked sedan and eventually a detective in
a gray button up who looked like it'd rather be
anywhere else. They called an off the bedroom, walked in
and out, took photos, asked the same questions a dozen
different ways, and every time to them the same story.
So did the contractor, which surprised me. Honestly. He was
pale and rattled, still stuttering when he spoke, but he
didn't change a word. The wall just opened, something grabbed him.
He screamed, the wall had just took him. We stood
together in the hallway while they searched, listening, watching, waiting
for one of them to scream or come running, but
no one did. Eventually the detective called us back in
the bedroom looked normal, no blood, no hole, no black fluid,
just that stupid floor wallpaper, flat clean, undisturbed. The only
sign that anything had ever happened was a landlord's key ring,
still lying on the floor where it had fallen. One
of the officers picked it up with a gloved hand
and bagged it like that meant something, like it proved something.
The detective looked at me for a long time. Then
the contractor. He had this expression on his face like
he was trying to figure out whether to laugh or
have us arrested. You're sticking to that, he asked. Finally,
we're telling you what we saw, I said. He nodded,
slowly wrote something in his note book. We'll be in touch,
he said, voice flat. The investigation would be long. I
knew that, but that left me displaced. My life was
in that house. God knows it wasn't smart to stay there,
but I had no other choice. I spent time looking
for somewhere else to stay, but had no luck. In
the meantime, I only did what was necessary in the house,
changing clothes, washing myself, storing food. But everything else I
did in my car. I slept there, ate there, and
job searched. The police called a few times, came by
once more, but eventually it just stopped. No rest, no charges,
no real investigation, just the note in the file unresolved disappearance.
That was it. The landlord was gone and the wall
still standing. I moved out the next week. Didn't pack much,
left behind the furniture, some clothes, even the mattress. The
landlord's van was still in the driveway when I left.
No one had come to claim it. I dropped the
keys to the mail slot and didn't look back. They
kept the deposit, of course, some nonsense about property damage.
I didn't argue. I just wanted out. I ended up
in a house share on the other side of town.
Two roommates, one bathroom, kitchen, sink that never quite drains right,
but it's safe. It's loud and cramped, and no one
knows how to take the trash out on time. But
the walls don't breathe, and nothing peels itself open in
the dark. I sleep not great, but I sleep some nights.
I still dream of it. Not the landlord screaming or
the blood, just the feel of it, that soft give
under my hand, warm like breath, the wallpaper stretching against
my palm, my skin waiting to tear. But then I
wake up and it's gone, and I tell myself I'm
lucky I got out.