The scent of rain lingered in the air as I unloaded the last of my things from the rental truck. The ground squished underneath my new shoes with every step. I could only hope I wouldn't get in trouble for getting them muddy before I even started school. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear my younger sister playing in our new backyard. Some brothers might have been jealous of their thirteen-year-old sibling slacking off, but I was just happy to hear her laughter again. Ever since the accident back in the city, that sound had all but disappeared.
I paused to stretch my back and looked up at the house. It loomed against the overcast sky like a forgotten relic. The wood was chipped in places, the shutters seemed to breathe in the wind. The windows, though clean, seemed too dark—like they were tinted from within. I shivered and told myself it was just the cold. I should have listened to Mom and worn a hoodie. Where we came from, it was always warm and bustling with life. This place? The air was dead, it was still. Too still.
"Luke!" Marie's voice cut through the silence. I turned toward the sound and caught sight of her sprinting through tall, unkempt grass. She was chasing a butterfly, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her. For a moment, I smiled. She always loved little critters and the wilderness.
But the moment faded. She stopped suddenly, mid-stride, and crouched low to the ground. I couldn't see what she was looking at, but her head tilted, as if listening to someone speak. Her lips moved—silent, as though in prayer.
"Marie?" I called, stepping off the driveway.
She turned to me slowly, her expression blank, eyes unfocused. My worry grew, since the accident she would sometimes space out. The doctors said she might experience moments of uncertainty for a while. But she blinked and just like that, her grin returned. Giggling she waved at me and ran back into the trees.
Something about the moment stuck with me. Like déjà vu layered with dread.
*****
Inside the house was better; it was warmer, cleaner—but not by much. The layout was odd, with narrow hallways and doorways that felt too short for anyone over five-foot-ten. My dad had to duck walking through the living room archway. Mom made a joke about it being "charmingly rustic," but I could see the hesitation in her eyes.
"Lots of character," the realtor had said. "Original woodwork, stone foundation, built in the 1880s." Apparently, the old owners "left town" in a hurry. No one explained why.
I was already beginning to wonder if we should've stayed in the city.
*****
That night, as I lay on my mattress (the bedframe wasn't assembled yet), I kept hearing a low clicking sound from the corner of the room. Like fingernails tapping a hollow pipe. When I turned on my flashlight, nothing was there. Just an empty wooden floor and a dusty window with warped glass.
I told myself it was the house settling. I mean, old houses make noises, right?
*****
A week passed.
The woods grew thicker the farther you walked, and the trees always looked like they were leaning, subtly, as if they were observing something, someone. Marie started spending more and more time out there. She'd sit on the edge of the yard near the tree line, drawing things in her sketchpad. I looked over her shoulder one day and saw a swarm of beetles crawling up a tree trunk, drawn with unsettling detail. She always had an eye for these things but the shading was perfect, too perfect.
"You saw these?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I think so. Maybe."
Later that night, I noticed the same beetle she'd drawn crawling up the inside of my bedroom wall. It was big, about the length of a thumb. It's shiny black sheen made me squirm. I couldn't stand to look at it anymore, without thinking I crushed it. To my surprise it burst into dust. Not blood. Dust.
That's strange, right?
*****
The following day Dad started acting weird.
He'd sit at the kitchen table and just… stare out the window. His coffee in one hand, paper in the other. That afternoon, I asked him if he was okay, and he jumped like I'd shouted.
"Fine," he muttered. "Just… tired."
Dad was always tired from the overtime he was forced to work. I didn't envy my father for the sacrifices he made to take care of us all. But Mom just blamed the stress of the move. Said we all needed to "adjust." She started drinking more wine after dinner. I even caught her rubbing her temples and whispering to herself in the hallway at night. She didn't seem to notice me, but I noticed the opened bottle of migraine medicine scattered across the bathroom counter.
*****
Two weeks passed, and I was beginning to lose my mind. I actually wanted school to start back up again so I could get out of the house. My unease was reaching new heights but… It was Marie who finally said it out loud.
I was helping her unpack her books when she looked up from a box and said it flatly. "There's something in the walls." Her casual tone was off putting.
"In the walls?"
"They buzz sometimes," she said. "And sometimes they whisper."
"Marie…"
"I know how it sounds," she said, still calmly stacking paperbacks. "But they talk to me. They like me."
*****
The next few days, I started keeping a notebook. I wrote down everything I noticed:
8:12 p.m. – Clicking in the vent again. Sounded faster. A fluttering sound. Almost like... wings?12:50 a.m. – Woke up. Bedroom felt like it was vibrating. Couldn't find the source. 9:44 a.m. – Dad had coffee beans in his mug, he crunched away at them like they were chips.6:17 p.m. – Mom had a nosebleed at dinner. Didn't react. Just let it drip.
Marie's behavior shifted too. Her eyes sometimes seemed too wide. She spoke more softly. Started drawing darker things. One picture showed our house surrounded by black tendrils, crawling in through every window.
When I asked her about it, she smiled and said, "That's just how they travel."
*****
I finally told Mom. She laughed, "Honey, I appreciate you looking out for your sister, but she has an active imagination. Maybe it's all the stress. Moving to a new town, a new school... and you're both still adjusting."
That word again—adjusting.
We were always adjusting to something. Adjusting to the move. Adjusting to the noise of the city. Adjusting from the trauma of the accident. We never talked about the fact that Marie had been the one in the car when it got hit. Never talked about the EMT who said she shouldn't have walked away without a scratch. We never talk about anything, just adjust.
*****
That night, I couldn't sleep. The walls buzzed louder. When I got up to check Marie's room, I found her sitting cross-legged on the floor. The light was off, but she didn't seem to notice.
"Marie?"
Her head swiveled slowly towards me slowly, pupils wide and unblinking. Her lips moved silently again. Then she said, "They like you too, you know. They think you're delicious."
I backed out of the room. I didn't sleep at all.
*****
The next morning, Marie was cheerful again. She made pancakes, humming some eerie tune under her breath that sounded half like a lullaby and half like a funeral march. Mom and Dad didn't notice. They never seemed to notice anything anymore.
"I had the weirdest dream last night," I said at breakfast, eyeing Marie.
"Oh?" Mom asked, pouring syrup.
"I saw bugs—inside the walls. They were talking."
Marie didn't flinch. She slowly licked syrup from her thumb and grinned at me with sticky teeth. "I don't think it was a dream," she sung each word with deliberation.
I stared at her. "What?"
She shrugged. "You heard them. That means they're almost ready."
Dad dropped his fork. It clattered against the plate as he smashed his fist into the dining table. I was the only one who jumped. He looked up at us, eyes bloodshot.
"Marie," he said quietly. "Enough."
She blinked and nodded, then returned to her pancakes like nothing happened. Her obedience was strange, my little sister would have ran to her room—tears streaming down her face.
*****
Later that day, I decided to explore the attic. I don't know why. Maybe I was hoping for answers. Maybe I just didn't want to be downstairs anymore. The attic door was a pull-down ladder in the hallway ceiling. I'd never even seen anyone open it. When I tugged the cord, it came down stiffly, like it had sealed shut from time and neglect. Dust exploded into the air as I climbed up. The light didn't work, so I used the flashlight on my phone. The space was full of old furniture, boxes, broken picture frames, and webs.
So many webs. But no spiders. Just… a sound. That low, rumbling.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I followed it to the far corner, where the insulation was torn back. A hollow space between the walls revealed something hidden inside… A box, scorched black along the edges. I reached in and pulled it out.
Inside were photos—old and faded. Families standing in front of the same house. Different years, different faces.
All with the same eyes. Wide. Haunted.
One of the photos had writing on the back:
"They come at night. If you see the eyes, it's too late."
*****
That evening, I tried to show the photos to my parents. Mom brushed it off. "People exaggerate. Others are too strung out on drugs or booze to know their heads from their ass—don't let your imagination run wild."
"Do you even see what's happening to Marie?" I waved my arms around wildly. "To you?"
Dad looked up from his beer. His hand trembled slightly. "She's fine," he muttered. "We're all just... adjusting."
"No, we're not adjusting!" My heart was in my throat, "We're being watched. We're being… F-fed on!"
Dad slammed his beer on the table. "Enough!"
His voice echoed sharply. The lights flickered. For a moment, I thought I saw something move beneath the floorboards.
*****
That night, I stayed awake. I heard movement. Not the creaks of a settling house—but crawling. A slithering vibration across the walls, the ceiling, even under the bed. I sat up, heart pounding, clutching a flashlight.
At 2:13 a.m., the power cut out. Total darkness.
Then came the whispering.
High-pitched, layered, like many tiny voices speaking in unison. I couldn't understand the words, but I felt them—in my spine, in my teeth, in my blood.
My doorknob twisted. I held my breath. The door creaked open, just an inch. Marie stood there. Her eyes gleamed with unnatural reflection. Her mouth twitched in a grin far too wide.
"They're inside," she said softly. "You should let them in too. It's easier."
Then she slowly closed the door, humming as her footsteps receded down the hall.
*****
The next morning, Dad was gone.
Mom said he'd "gone into town," but she looked pale, shaky. She kept glancing at the door like she was waiting for something. By evening, she stopped responding altogether. I found her sitting on the floor in the laundry room, rocking back and forth. Her eyes were bloodshot. Black veins pulsed beneath her skin. She whispered over and over, "Too late, too late, too late…"
Marie sat nearby, drawing.
When I asked her where Dad went, she just said, "He's with them now. They like him."
I ran upstairs to grab my phone, I tried to call for help. My cell had zero bars—no matter where I stood. I tried the landline… Nothing.
That night, it got worse.
I dreamed I was trapped in the walls. The bugs were crawling over me, into my ears, my mouth, my eyes. I screamed, but no one came. I woke up gagging, only to find something wriggling under my sheets. It was one of the beetles. Alive. Real. I crushed it. Again, it turned to dust.
I ran to Mom's room. She was lying on the bed, eyes wide open, not blinking.
"Mom?" I shook her. "Mom, please—wake up!"
Her mouth opened slowly. A beetle crawled out.
I flung myself backwards against the wall, screaming.
Marie appeared behind me in the hallway. "They didn't listen," she said, almost sad. "That's why they had to go."
I stumbled back into the hall, hyperventilating. I wanted to run, to leave, to get Marie out—but part of me knew it was already too late.
*****
That night, I found my dad in the basement… Or what was left of him. He was on the floor, twisted unnaturally. His face frozen in terror. His eyes were missing—hollow, dark sockets crawling with movement. My stomach flopped as I threw up.
Marie stood at the top of the basement stairs. "I tried to save him," she said. "But they wanted a taste."
I grabbed her wrist and dragged her upstairs. "We're leaving. Now."
She didn't resist. She just kept smiling.
*****
I packed a bag. Flashlights. Food. The matches. The photos. Anything useful. We stepped outside for the first time in days. The air felt heavier. The trees were closer. Too close. I took Marie's hand and pulled her toward the dirt road that led into town.
But we didn't make it far.
The buzzing returned—louder than ever, shaking the trees. The sky darkened unnaturally. A black swarm rose from the forest, thick and fast, forming a cloud that moved like a living thing.
They circled us. Surrounding us. Hunting us.
Marie just stared into the mass. "It's okay," she said. "They don't want you… Yet."
I couldn't stand it anymore. So I did something drastic. I dragged her back to the house, slammed the door, locked it. Then I opened the basement hatch and poured the gasoline my dad had gotten for the lawn mower all over the floors and walls.
"They live in the walls," I whispered. "Then we'll take the walls."
Marie tilted her head. "They won't like that."
"I don't care." My fear turned to anger.
As the fire took hold, the buzzing grew into a shriek. Soot rained from the ceiling. Flames licked up the corners of the living room as the house seemed to tremble and scream. Not creak. Scream.
Marie stood still in the middle of it all, her hair glowing in the firelight, her face serene. "You're hurting them," she said quietly.
"They hurt you first," I snapped. "They hurt all of us."
I snatched her up and carried her out as the roof caved in. We ran into the woods. The night was lit orange behind us. The swarm scattered, screeching as they retreated. The trees bent away. The silence returned. We sat by the road for several minutes until we could hear sirens.
*****
By the time the fire trucks reached us, the house was a pillar of flame against the night sky. Embers drifted upward like fireflies escaping hell. I stood at the rear of the ambulance, shivering in my sweat-soaked hoodie. Marie sat beside me, wrapped in a blanket one of the paramedics gave her. Her hands were covered in soot. Her eyes didn't blink much.
A firefighter approached us. His face was smudged, streaked with sweat and ash. "You're the only ones here?" He asked.
I nodded.
"What happened?"
I looked at Marie. She was staring into the fire, her lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. A chill ran down my spine.
"I—I don't know," I lied. "We woke up and the place was... burning. We barely got out."
*****
By morning, the house was gone—just a blackened skeleton against the gray sky. The fire had consumed everything.
Investigators would later say it must've been a faulty fuse box, maybe something old and corroded. But they couldn't explain why the stone walls had exploded outward. Or how the fire burned so hot it fused pipes with the foundation. They didn't ask about the things we saw crawling through the smoke. The shapes. The twitching, retreating swarms.
They couldn't ask because they couldn't see them.
*****
We were taken to a hospital for evaluation. I answered every question. I told them Marie and I had been staying in the attic after our parents "went missing." I told them I didn't remember anything after the fire started. I didn't tell them what I saw in the basement. Or how the walls whispered. They wouldn't believe me anyway.
*****
A week went by, Marie was quieter now. She didn't draw, didn't hum. Doctors said it was likely trauma. That she'd "repressed" most of the memories, but she'll adjust.
There is that damned word again.
But the doctors had theories, they always did.Sometimes I wanted to believe them. That it was grief. Or madness. Or stress. Something explainable. But then I'd see Mom again, sitting there, veins blackened. Or Dad's hollow eyes. Or worse, I'd hear the sound of wings fluttering just out of sight..
*****
Another week after the fire, a social worker placed us with a distant cousin. A woman named Carol. She lived three hours away, in a bright white house with a picket fence and flowers in hanging baskets. Marie was silent the entire drive there.
It was too clean. Too normal.
*****
Our first night in Carol's guest room, I woke up around 3 a.m. The air was heavy again. Buzzing reached my ears. It was faint, but unmistakable. I sat up and checked the vent. Nothing. Then I looked at Marie.
She was sitting up in bed, facing me, eyes wide. "You heard it, didn't you?" she asked.
My blood froze. "Heard what?"
"Them."
I swallowed hard. "They're gone. We burned the house. We killed them."
She shook her head slowly.
"They're not gone, Luke. They just moved."
"No, they're gone Marie." I doubled down.
I couldn't sleep after that.
Every night, I lay in the dark listening. Listening for the whisper behind the walls. For the sound of skittering legs. For that soft, echoing click-click-click.
I started writing again. More notes. More warnings. Just in case.
Marie didn't talk much anymore. But she watched me. Always watched.
*****
Two more weeks passed. One night, I found her sitting on the floor of the hallway, sketchpad in hand. She hadn't drawn anything since the fire.
"What is it?" I asked.
She turned the sketchpad around. It was a house. Carol's house, covered in tendrils. Black lines creeping from the basement, through the walls, up the staircase. My pulse quickened.
"They're already inside," she said.
*****
I checked every vent in the house that night. Every crack. Every floorboard. I found one beetle. Just one. Sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink. I reached for it. It burst into dust. A rage boiled within me. I wouldn't let them take me or my sister.
*****
I confronted her the next day. "Marie, how do you know they're still here?"
She stared at me, eyes glinting. "Because they like you, Luke. They won't leave until you let them."
I stepped back. "No, that can't be. We burned that bug house to the ground. We got them!"
She smiled. "That was their house but it wasn't their home."
*****
A few nights later, I woke to scratching under my bed. Not rats. Not the house settling. No, I knew that sound all too well. Scratching like claws. Or mandibles. I turned on the light.
Marie was gone.
I ran to the hallway. Nothing. Then I saw the basement door was open. I crept downstairs, heart pounding. I feared for the worse, that Marie ended up like our dad. The basement was dark and cold. I found her standing in the corner, whispering.
To nothing. Or more likely than not, to something.
"Marie?" I called.
She turned. Her eyes shined again. Reflective.
"They said we can stay," she said. "They just want us to play with them now and then. Just a bit, a taste."
"You brought them here."
"I didn't bring them," she said. "They followed. That's what they do."
I ran. I didn't know where to go. I ended up on the porch, gasping for air, staring up at the stars that felt too far away. Eventually, Marie came outside too. She sat beside me and leaned her head on my shoulder.
"It's not so bad," she whispered. "They don't want to kill us. Just feed a little. We're special. We survived."
I stared at the road. There were no headlights. No cars. No escape.
Only silence. I looked at my sister who I loved so much. Once more, I decided to do something drastic.
*****
It's been six months. Carol thinks I'm adjusting well. She told the school I just needed time. Marie smiles at me everyday now from her picture above the fireplace. People say I'm lucky to be alive. Sometimes I agree. Other times, I wake up in cold sweats calling out for my sister.
I haven't told anyone about the buzzing in the pipes. Or the soft scratching behind the bathroom mirror. I try not to listen. If I don't acknowledge them, they don't have any power over me.
But it's getting louder again.
And sometimes, late at night, I see Marie's face from the corner of my eyes, drawing in her sketchpad or chasing a butterfly. As I'm writing this I just smiled for the first time in a while at the funniest thought. I am adjusting—adjusting to Marie's bug friends crawling under my skin.
*****