Some nights, the house does not sleep. Tonight is one of those nights.
The walls themselves seem to breathe. I can hear it if I press my ear close enough—a soft susurration, almost like words, almost like a secret not meant for the living.
I wandered the hallway after dinner, notebook in hand, candle flickering in trembling light. The shadows pool at the edges of the walls, long and slow, stretching as though they are eager to touch me.
At first, it was subtle. The faintest hum, a vibration beneath my fingertips when I brushed the wallpaper. Then, whispers began to rise—indistinct, curling in the corners of the hallway, threading through the air like smoke.
"Marisol… Marisol…"
My breath caught. The sound was familiar—like my parents' voices, but distant, warped, impossible. They were calling me, or warning me, or taunting me. I could not tell which.
I pressed my ear against the wall.
The whispers sharpened. Letters formed in my mind before my eyes could see them:
"We have always been here. We have always watched. We remember."
I pulled back. The walls were solid—or they seemed so—but the sensation of being observed gnawed at my skin. I had the unsettling feeling the house itself was breathing, exhaling secrets only I could hear.
I moved down the corridor slowly, daring the whispers to follow. And they did. Soft voices, rising and falling with my heartbeat, mimicking the rhythm of my steps. It was not just sound—it was sensation. I could feel the letters crawling along my spine, tracing shapes that should not exist.
The diary trembled in my hand. It had grown heavy, almost as if it were alive. I set it on the floor for a moment. The whispers responded. They swelled, twisting into patterns I could feel more than hear, pressing against the walls and my consciousness.
And then I saw them—shadows pooling at the baseboards, like ink spilled from unseen hands. They twisted upward, stretching toward the ceiling, forming shapes: hands, faces, eyes that blinked too slowly, too wide. I knew instinctively they were not friendly, yet I could not tear my gaze away.
I whispered their names—my parents. Not to call them, but to anchor myself to the remnants of the world I knew. The walls answered, voices overlapping now, richer, closer:
"Do you remember? Do you see? They never left."
My chest tightened. I remembered the warnings from the night they disappeared. The trembling in my mother's hands when she tried to lock this very hallway, the stern voice of my father insisting, "Curiosity is a dangerous inheritance, Marisol." And now, it seemed, curiosity had called me forward into their world. Or perhaps their world had called me forward into itself.
I reached out. My fingertips brushed the wall. Cold, solid—or at least it seemed solid—but the sensation beneath my touch was wrong. It was liquid, vibrating with life, as if the house itself was made of whispers. I drew back, heart hammering.
A shadow separated from the wall. It was thin, elongated, almost human in form—but distorted, wrong in angles, wrong in essence. It reached toward me, and the air grew heavy. I could feel it pressing against my chest, my mind, my bones.
I gasped, stepping back. The candle flickered violently, shadows tearing across the floor like living ink. I felt a presence brush past me. Not air. Not wind. Something more—something with weight, with memory, with intent.
I grabbed the diary again. Ink spilled across the page as though the pen had a mind of its own:
"The walls speak what the living forget. They remember what the dead cannot tell. Will you listen, Marisol? Will you follow?"
I swallowed, trembling. Yes, I would follow.
Because I am cursed with curiosity.
Because I am brave, a misguided genius- you would say, or both.
Because I am the daughter of those who vanished before their story ended, and perhaps it is my story now to finish.
The whispers grew louder, overlapping, almost intelligible.
Fragments of phrases reached my ears:
"…they watch…"
"…we remember…"
"…the threshold…"
I pressed my ear to the wall once more, letting the vibrations crawl into me. My skin tingled. My vision blurred. The walls themselves seemed to pulse, expanding and contracting, alive with something ancient and aware.
A shadow detached itself fully from the wall and hovered near my shoulder. I could not see it fully in the candlelight. It moved with me, matching my steps, leaning closer. And yet, I did not run. I did not scream. I wrote.
I wrote everything. The trembling diary, the whispering walls, the shadows that pooled and rose like ink in a darkened river. I wrote the voices that sounded like my parents, that sounded like other things older than the house itself.
And as I wrote, I felt the air shift. The whispers drew back slightly, leaving behind a residue of quiet that hummed in my bones. I sensed eyes—many, countless, patient—watching me, waiting to see what I would do next.
I should stop. I should leave the diary and step away, but something presses at the edges of my mind. Something whispers: "Curiosity is not punishment. It is inheritance. Follow."
I seem.... otherwise detained.
Because some walls do not merely contain a house.
They contain memory.
They contain echoes.
They contain those who came before…
and those who will come after.
(The diary trembles in my hands. The ink swirls faintly across the page as if alive. I should end this entry here… but the walls have not finished their tale. And neither have I.)