The Whispering Walls
I’ve been living in this apartment in Brooklyn for almost a year now. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s mine. Or at least, it was mine. Lately, it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. You’d think living in New York City would drown out all the weird noises — sirens, people shouting, the hum of traffic. But this is different. The noises I’ve been hearing feel… off.
It started roughly a month ago. I was in bed, mindlessly scrolling on my phone, when I heard it for the first time: a faint, almost metallic scraping sound coming from the corner of my living room. I chalked it up to rats in the walls. While that seems strange, it is New York, after all. The next night, it happened again — this time, closer. But no matter how hard I looked or listened, I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.
As a few days passed, the sounds got louder. Soon, a soft tapping was added to the chorus of noises. At first, I thought it was my upstairs neighbors. Maybe their kid is running around, or someone is moving furniture late at night? Except it wasn’t above me — it was next to me, like it was coming from inside my walls.
I’ve checked for cracks, for gaps where rats could slip through, but nothing explains it. I don’t know how to describe it. It feels like the apartment is alive like it’s breathing around me. Every night, I lie awake, just listening, waiting for that noise to start. And it always does. Scratch. Tap. Scratch. Sometimes it almost sounds like whispering, but when I try to focus on it, it stops. This only makes me feel like I’m slowly losing my mind.
Then, things started moving.
At first, I thought I was just being careless. I’d leave a book on my coffee table, and the next morning, it would be on the floor, pages crumpled like they’d been stepped on. My favorite coffee mug? It was shattered on the kitchen counter when I came home from work. I thought maybe I had left it near the edge, and it fell, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was happening.
One night, I was sitting on the couch, trying to ignore the sounds, when my phone slid across the coffee table. I stared at it, waiting for the tremor, the gust of air — anything to explain how it moved. Nothing. My heart pounded in my chest as I reached out to pick it up. That’s when the lights flickered. Just for a second. But that second stretched forever in the dark. I swear, in that moment of flickering, I saw a shape — something shifting in the shadow by my bedroom door.
I didn’t sleep that night. I haven’t really slept since.
Last week, I came home from work and found my kitchen trashed. Drawers pulled open, silverware scattered across the floor, like someone — or something — had been looking for something. But the door was still locked, windows closed, no sign of a break-in. I cleaned up the mess, but the feeling of being watched, of not being alone, hasn’t left me.
Last night was the worst. I woke up to that same metallic scraping, but this time it was in my bedroom. I froze, my back pressed against the mattress, every inch of me terrified to move. Slowly, the sound crept closer, like something dragging itself across the floor. I could feel it — whatever it was — just inches away, but I couldn’t see a thing. My room was pitch black.
I turned on the light, my heart thundering, but of course, nothing was there. Just silence. But when I checked the floor this morning, there were scratches. Faint, but there. Like someone — or something — had been crawling next to my bed.
I’m not sure how much longer I can stay here. Every day, the air in this apartment feels heavier, like it’s pressing down on me, suffocating me. The noises, the things moving — they’re getting worse. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know if I’m losing it or if something has found its way inside.
But whatever it is, I can feel it watching me.
