Whispers in the Walls

I think the house knows me. Or maybe it knows something inside me. Something I don’t even know. Last night, when the lights went out, I heard it. My name. Lena. Whispered. Soft. Wrong. I pressed my ear against the bedroom wall. The plaster felt cold. My fingers shook. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the pipes. It was alive. Breathing. Waiting. I tried to pull back, but something inside my chest kept me pressed there. Listening. I wanted to tell someone. Mom. Dad. Anyone. But words got stuck in my throat. Maybe they wouldn’t believe me. Maybe it’s the house, maybe it’s me. My brain says it’s me. But something—something else—says no. I kept my eyes open even when darkness pressed against them. Shadows moved in the corners of my vision. Or were they just my imagination? I can’t tell anymore. The whispers are closer now, curling around the edges of my thoughts. Lena… Lena… I touched the wall again. Cold, smooth, wrong. My skin prickled. A pulse? A heartbeat? It laughed then. Soft, quiet, but cruel. And I—I laughed too, though I don’t know why. Fear, maybe. Madness, probably. I don’t know how long I stayed there. Minutes? Hours? My head is buzzing with thoughts I don’t understand. I keep hearing it. The walls talk, and now my brain listens. Too well. Too carefully. I write this down to remind myself I’m still here. That I exist outside the walls. That they don’t own me. But they do. They are patient. They wait. And they remember everything. I hear it again, whispering. Lena… Lena…