It was a sweltering summer day more than twenty years ago. I was around ten years old—still young enough to see the world with a child's curiosity, yet old enough to sense the unease of leaving behind the familiar. That was when my family moved into our "new" house—though in truth, it was anything but new.
The house stood on the edge of a small, quiet town, surrounded by silence that felt more oppressive than peaceful. Its brick walls were cracked and peeling, patches of plaster shedding like the skin of some withering body. The roof leaked in places, the beams above groaned whenever the wind passed through, and the garden was nothing but a jungle of waist-high weeds. Worst of all, the place swarmed with enormous mosquitoes, as though the property had been theirs long before we arrived.
My parents had bought it simply because it was cheap. But after sinking in a small fortune for repairs, I couldn't help but wonder—was it really cheap after all? Of course, such questions belonged to the grown-ups. I was more preoccupied with my own small world, and to me, the most striking thing about the move was how unbearably dull this place seemed.
The quiet was absolute. The neighbors were distant and unfriendly, and the children in the area seemed strange—reserved, unsmiling, unwilling to play. I tried approaching them a few times, but quickly gave up and retreated into my own company. I had been used to playing alone anyway.
On our very first night there, I had a dream. In it, I wandered to the backyard, where an old well stood. Normally, the well was sealed shut, but in the dream, its cover was ajar. The night sky stretched endlessly overhead, black as ink yet glittering with a million stars. Then, from the mouth of the well, a column of white smoke rose and twisted into the form of a young man. I couldn't make out his face—it was hazy, like mist—but instead of fear, I felt a strange sense of familiarity. We sat together at the edge of the well, speaking with the ease of old friends. I don't remember a single word of what we said, only that it felt warm, almost comforting. Strangely, I never had that dream again.
A few days later, one late afternoon, I was in the backyard playing idly with the sand. The sun was sinking, painting everything in hues of gold, when a peculiar sensation struck me. It was hard to describe—like a chill crawling up my spine, as though unseen eyes were fixed on me. I stopped what I was doing, brushed the dirt off my hands, and went inside to wash.
As I walked past the refrigerator, my gaze drifted upward—toward the wall beside it. And then I froze.
There, on the worn, patchy wall, a head began to take shape. It was black as smoke, yet disturbingly solid, bulging outward from the wall. I could see its hollow eye sockets, the cavity of its nose, unmistakably forming the face of a human. It hung there, protruding from the wall, dark and grotesque, watching me with empty voids where its eyes should have been.
And yet… I wasn't afraid. I didn't scream. I didn't run. Instead, I stood rooted to the floor, staring at it as if hypnotized. After what felt like an eternity, the smoky head seemed to realize it could not frighten me. Slowly, almost reluctantly, it dissolved, fading into nothing until the wall was bare once again—blank, silent, innocent.
I never saw it again. But the memory of that head has haunted me ever since. Even now, decades later, I still ask myself: what did I witness that day? Was it the overactive imagination of a child—or was something else truly there, watching me from the wall?
And I wonder… has anyone else ever seen something like that?