Chapter 1: The Little Girl Behind the Wall
“Daddy?””
The little girl’s voice was so fragile that I almost didn't hear it over the pounding of my heart.
She was sitting on the dusty floor behind our bedroom closet, her knees pressed against her chest, her tangled brown hair hanging over a face that looked frighteningly familiar.
I had never seen her before.
Yet the dark birthmark beneath her jaw was identical to mine.
My name is Ryan Mitchell. I'm thirty-six years old, married to a woman named Vanessa, and until yesterday afternoon, I believed I had an ordinary, happy family.
We had a beautiful house in suburban Ohio, a four-year-old daughter named Lily, and a golden retriever who spent most of his time sleeping beside the fireplace.
Vanessa and I had been married for seven years.
I thought I knew everything about her.
Apparently, I knew nothing.
It started with the noises.
For almost three weeks, I had heard scratching sounds coming from somewhere inside our bedroom walls.
At first, I blamed mice.
One night, while brushing my teeth, I heard three distinct knocks behind the bathroom mirror.
I turned off the faucet.
"Did you hear that?"" I called.
Vanessa was folding laundry on our bed.
"Hear what?""
"Something inside the wall.""
She didn't even look up.
"Probably the pipes, Ryan. This house is old.""
But the house wasn't particularly old. It had been built only twelve years earlier.
The following morning, I mentioned calling an exterminator.
Vanessa dropped her coffee spoon.
"Why would we do that?""
"Because something is scratching inside the walls.""
She forced a laugh.
"You're becoming paranoid.""
Then she changed the subject.
I should have noticed how quickly she did it.
A few days later, Lily started talking about a secret friend.
We were eating pancakes when she suddenly looked toward the hallway.
"Can I save some breakfast for Emily?""
I smiled.
"Who's Emily, sweetheart?""
"My friend.""
"From preschool?""
Lily shook her head.
"No. She lives in my closet.""
Vanessa's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
I laughed.
"Well, that's interesting. What does Emily look like?""
"She's little. Like me. But she's hungry.""
Vanessa abruptly pushed her chair backward.
"Enough, Lily.""
Our daughter blinked.
"But Mommy—"
"I said enough.""
I stared at my wife.
"She's four, Vanessa. She's playing.""
Vanessa grabbed Lily's plate and carried it to the sink.
"Children shouldn't invent imaginary people who live in their bedrooms. It encourages nightmares.""
That evening, Lily climbed into our bed.
She snuggled against my chest and whispered something that made me smile.
"Emily says thank you for the bread.""
I kissed her forehead.
"That's sweet, baby.""
"She says she's scared of Mommy.""
My smile disappeared.
"What?""
Lily looked toward the bedroom door.
"Mommy gets angry when Emily makes noises.""
I sat up.
"Does Emily make noises?""
Lily nodded.
"Sometimes she cries.""
Before I could ask anything else, Vanessa appeared in the doorway.
"Lily. Bed. Now.""
Our daughter immediately buried her face against my chest.
I looked at Vanessa.
"What's going on?""
"Nothing. She's been watching too many scary cartoons.""
Vanessa carried Lily away.
I remained awake for hours, listening to the strange scratching behind the walls.
Then, around two in the morning, I heard something that made the hair on my arms stand up.
A little girl was crying.
Not outside.
Not in the hallway.
Inside our bedroom wall.
The next morning, I decided to inspect the house.
I checked the attic, the crawl space, and the plumbing.
Nothing.
When I returned to our bedroom, Vanessa was standing beside the closet.
She was staring at the wooden panel along the bottom of the back wall.
"What are you doing?"" I asked.
She jumped.
"Nothing.""
"Did you hear something?""
"No.""
Her hand was trembling.
I approached the panel.
One corner looked slightly loose.
I reached toward it.
Vanessa grabbed my wrist.
"Don't touch that.""
I stared at her.
"Why?""
"Because there's wiring behind it. You could hurt yourself.""
I pulled my hand away.
"Then I'll get an electrician.""
She swallowed.
"Ryan, please. Just leave it alone.""
That was when I understood something was terribly wrong.
Vanessa wasn't afraid of mice.
She was afraid of whatever was behind that wall.
Yesterday afternoon, I came home early from work.
Vanessa had supposedly taken Lily to a pediatric appointment, but I found my daughter sitting alone in our bedroom.
She was holding a piece of bread.
"Hey, princess.""
Lily startled.
"Daddy!""
She quickly turned toward the closet.
I noticed the bread was missing its crust.
"What are you doing?""
"Feeding Emily.""
My stomach tightened.
Lily knelt and pushed the bread through a narrow seam between the wooden panels.
A tiny hand emerged from the darkness.
It grabbed the bread.
I stopped breathing.
"Sweetheart," I whispered, "who's in there?""
Lily looked up.
"Emily.""
I rushed toward the closet.
There was no time to think.
I grabbed the edge of the rotten wooden panel and pulled.
It cracked with a horrible splintering sound.
Behind it was a narrow cavity, barely wide enough for an adult to crawl through.
And inside it was a child.
A little girl.
She wore an oversized pink sweater, dirty leggings, and no shoes.
Her cheeks were hollow.
Her wrists were frighteningly thin.
She stared at me with enormous brown eyes.
I stumbled backward.
"Jesus Christ!""
Vanessa appeared behind me.
The moment she saw the opening, all the color drained from her face.
"Ryan, stay away from her!""
I turned.
"What the hell is this?""
Vanessa began shaking.
"Please. Don't.""
The little girl slowly lifted her head.
Her eyes moved from Vanessa to me.
Then she whispered one word.
"Daddy?""
My heart stopped.
I crouched in front of her.
"What's your name, sweetheart?""
She swallowed.
"Emily.""
"How old are you?""
She held up five fingers.
I looked at the birthmark beneath her jaw.
The same dark crescent-shaped mark I had carried since birth.
My hand instinctively touched my own neck.
Behind me, Vanessa collapsed onto her knees.
"Ryan, I'm sorry.""
Before I could demand an explanation, something moved inside the darkness behind the little girl.
Heavy footsteps.
Deliberate.
Slow.
A tall figure emerged from the blackness, holding a faded photograph of my family.
He stepped into the light.
And I recognized the face.
It belonged to my father.
A man who had supposedly been dead for eleven years.
May you like
He looked directly at me.
Then he said, "Son, you weren't supposed to find her.""
