The Girl in the Wall
Margaret sat wrapped in an old, patchwork quilt on the foot of her bed. The trees tossed with the frenzied lashing of the wind. Behind the trees, clouds scudded across the sky. The light ripped through them, creating wraith-like shadows that raced along the ground.
Margaret glanced furtively out the small, circular attic window; subconsciously drawing the tattered quilt closer to her small frame. The storm continued. The wind always howled like this before the rain became a downpour.
She glanced down as the blood dripped off the butcher knife she was clutching. It made a splatter sound that seemed to harmonize with the rain drops hitting the roof.
The house sat eerily upon the hill, looking down on the rest of town, and had unsettled Margaret from the moment they arrived. She had tried to explain to her mom about the young girl, that spoke to her from the attic walls, a few days after they had moved in. Her mom said that her imagination could weave tales the way a spider wove a web.
She had told her mom about hearing strange noises, coming from the walls, at the beginning of the week. Her mom had insisted that the crying sounds must have been a new litter of barn cats. The banging and clanging, she had explained away as more wind. The quilt slipped off Margaret’s shoulder, and she reached to fix it. At that moment, the wind picked up smacking the shutters of the attic window against the house, startling Margaret into action.
She got up off the bed and walked haltingly over to the window. Stepping in a puddle of blood along the way, while the girl in the walls kept whispering:
They should have listened.