The Cry Behind the Walls
804 Words
The silence in the mansion was no longer peaceful — it pressed against Mei like a weight, as if the house was holding its breath.
She stood in the corridor outside the forbidden east wing, the old wooden floor creaking beneath her bare feet. The red string she’d tied to her wrist — a charm from her grandmother — hung limp, offering no warmth or protection. She clutched it tightly anyway.
Earlier that night, she'd heard it again.
A woman’s cry. Soft, broken, like someone mourning something long lost.
It had come from behind the wall.
Not a room. Not a hallway. The wall itself.
Mei stared at the wallpaper — faded lotus patterns barely clinging to the damp surface. Her fingers brushed over it slowly, expecting cold stone, but instead she felt... something else.
A soft thud echoed behind it.
She yanked her hand back.
“No,” she whispered to herself. “It’s the wind. Or rats. Or—”
Thud.
Again.
It came with a quiet sob this time. A voice. Muffled. Desperate.
"Let me out..."
Mei stumbled backward, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart pounded wildly as her gaze darted toward the end of the hall. The door to the east wing stood slightly ajar.
She hadn’t opened it.
And no one else was awake.
She should run. She should call her aunt. But her feet moved on their own, toward the door. Toward the voice.
The hall grew colder with every step. The kind of cold that sank into her skin and clung to her bones. As she neared the door, a low whisper slid past her ear.
“You're not supposed to be here, Mei.”
She froze.
The voice was right behind her — female, hoarse, and unfamiliar.
Slowly, she turned. No one was there.
She turned back.
The door to the east wing was now wide open.
Darkness swirled beyond it, thick and unnatural. Mei hesitated, then stepped inside.
---
The east wing was a forgotten part of the mansion. No lights. No photos. The wallpaper was stripped down to the rotting wood in places, and the smell of mildew clung to everything. Her flashlight flickered.
As she moved deeper, she found doors — all shut tight, some sealed with rusted chains. It felt like a prison more than a home.
Then she saw it.
A door that wasn’t like the others. It was painted red.
Fresh red.
Bright and angry, like blood.
And on the doorframe, someone had written in chalk — old characters she barely remembered from her childhood.
"Bride’s Rest."
"Do not disturb the dead."
But the door was cracked open.
Her hand moved before she could stop it, and she pushed it open the rest of the way.
Inside was a room frozen in time.
A red wedding dress hung from a wooden mannequin near the window, dusty but untouched by age. An altar sat in the corner, with ashes in a brass urn and a faded photo of a young woman — pale, beautiful, with eyes that seemed to follow you.
Mei stepped closer.
She could feel the sadness in the air. Thick. Drowning.
The woman in the photo wore the same red dress.
Mei whispered, “Who are you?”
Then she noticed something — a music box beside the urn. Ornate. Lacquered in black with red peony carvings. It was open... but silent.
She reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the lid, it played on its own.
A slow, haunting melody.
Then a gust of wind blew through the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
The lights flickered.
Mei turned.
And the mannequin was gone.
The dress now stood in the middle of the room, upright — as if worn by someone invisible.
“Wh-what…” Her words stuck to her throat.
A sob echoed again — loud this time. From the corner.
She turned and screamed.
There, curled up beside the altar, was a figure. A woman, long black hair covering her face, her body shaking with each cry.
Mei backed up. Her breath caught.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”
The woman looked up.
Her face was hollow. Her eyes were all white. Her mouth stretched wide into a smile that didn’t belong to the living.
“You're too late.” The voice rang with bitterness, pain, and fury.
And then, darkness.
---
When Mei woke up, she was lying on her bedroom floor. Morning sunlight trickled through the curtains. Her clothes were damp with cold sweat. Her wrist burned.
She looked down.
The red string was gone — replaced with a deep red bruise that looked like fingers.
And scratched into her palm were two words she did not remember writing:
"Help her."
---
- Writer
