Morning came, but it didn't feel like morning.
The light that slipped into the bedroom looked… different. Too pale. Too thin. Like it had been filtered through something that didn't want it here.
Annabelle woke before me.
She sat upright in bed, staring at the wall as though listening to someone I couldn't hear. For a long moment, she didn't blink.
"Anna?" I whispered.
She turned slowly, her face calm — too calm.
"I heard something," she said.
My breath caught. "What?"
She tilted her head, as if replaying a memory only she had access to.
"The walls were talking."
I swallowed hard.
When we finally stepped into the hallway, everything felt off. Not drastically — just enough to notice.
The floorboards were colder.
The air tasted metallic, like old pennies.
And somewhere inside the house, wood groaned softly… as if adjusting to our footsteps.
Downstairs, Annabelle moved quietly, with purpose I didn't understand. She ran her fingers along the wallpaper, tracing patterns that weren't there.
"Sweetie… what are you doing?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she pressed her palm against the wall.
The house responded.
A soft thump — from inside the wall.
Like something knocking back.
I froze.
Annabelle didn't flinch. She simply lowered her hand and walked away.
All day, small shifts followed us:
A chair that wasn't where I left it.
A picture frame that leaned slightly, as if it had turned to look.
A hallway draft that moved against the direction of the air vents.
By evening, the house felt… awake.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Just aware.
That night, Annabelle curled beside me again — silent, distant.
I tried to sleep, but the breathing began.
Not the whispering.
Not the voice.
This was different.
The walls breathed.
A slow inhale that made the wallpaper ripple.
A low exhale that fluttered the curtains, even though the window was shut.
I sat up, heart hammering.
The breathing stopped.
For a moment.
Then
"Mom."
Annabelle's voice. Small. Shaken.
I turned to her. "Yes?"
She stared past me, eyes wide, fixed on the wall behind my head.
"It… remembers," she whispered.
My stomach flipped. "What remembers?"
Her voice dropped into something hollow.
"The thing in the walls."
The lamp flickered violently.
And then — a sound behind me.
Not scratching.
Not whispering.
A hand. Pressing through the wall.
The bulge of fingers dragging down the wallpaper, stretching it tight like skin.
I didn't turn.
I couldn't.
Annabelle breathed out a trembling whisper:
"It's trying to come through."
The wall pulsed again.
And this time…
Something pushed harder.
Trying to break into the room.