CHAPTER XII - The Withered Man
690 Words
The sound was the first thing that happened.
Ethan recently moved into his new apartment, a modest but cozy space in a historic brick building on the outskirts of town. He wasn't in a position to be picky, but the price seemed strangely low. He had been given the keys by the old, teary-eyed homeowner along with one bit of advice:
“Don’t listen to him.”
Ethan had dismissed it with a laugh. The building featured groaning pipes in the walls, flickering lights, and creaking floors—all of which were normal for an old structure. The initial evenings went without incident. Then the knocking began to reach him.
It began as a faint tapping sound coming from the walls. He thought it might be a neighbor or the pipes. Then it started to have a beat. Intentional.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Always at 3:00 AM.
He made an effort to ignore it. He put on headphones and turned on some music to block out the sound, but the knocking would still come through and tap at the corners of his awareness no matter how hard he tried.
Then whispers began.
At first, they were so faint that they could hardly be distinguished from the din of the city outside. But the words became more distinct as the evenings went by.
“Let me in.”
Ethan's heart pounded as he sat up in bed. The voice sounded dry and harsh, like leaves rubbing against a sidewalk. He switched on all the lights in his apartment and made sure the windows and locks were locked. However, the voice continued.
“Let me in.”
The knocking returned, louder this time. More insistent.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Breathing heavily, Ethan covered his ears with his fists. He considered giving the homeowner a call, but what would he say? That there was a whispering in his walls? That there was a knock coming from within?
He looked about the building for answers the following day. An elderly woman with weary eyes was his neighbor, and he knocked on her door. When he brought up the knocking, she scowled.
“You hear it too?”
He nodded. Her face paled.
“Don’t answer it,” she whispered, then shut the door.
That night, Ethan barely slept. He sat in his bed, staring at the wall, waiting. The clock struck three.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He clenched his fists. The whispers returned, urgent now, pleading.
“Let me in.”
Ethan stood. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was curiosity, but something pulled him toward the wall. He pressed his ear against it.
Silence.
Then—
A rasping breath, inches from his ear.
Fear tightened his chest as he staggered back. The walls shook as the knocking began again, more forcefully this time. The drywall then impossibly cracked.
Fingers appeared.
Gray and lifeless, thin, withered fingers pushed through the wall c***k. One arm followed, then another, straining, scratching, and Ethan choked on a scream. A head thrust forward, the shadows of the shattered plaster hiding its features. However, its mouth—its mouth was twisted into an overly broad smile with too pointed teeth.
It wheezed, sucking in a rattling breath.
“You let me in.”
Ethan ran.
He struggled with the lock and ran for the door. The object in the wall behind him wriggled loose, its joints snapping as it dragged itself into on space. Its skin was sagging like an old suit that no longer fit, and it was tall and incredibly thin.
Ethan ran down the hall after yanking the door open. The walls shook. As he went by, doors shook, but nobody emerged. Nobody else heard it. Or worse, they choose to ignore it.
Only until he was outside, breathing in the chilly night air, did he stop. He raised his gaze to his window.
The Withered Man stood there, watching him, grinning.
Ethan never came back.
Days later, the homeowner listed the apartment again.
The price was even lower this time.
And when the next tenant moved in, the knocking started again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
- Writer
