The Ghosts in the Walls

I recently found a short poem I wrote by hand. This was back in 2012, before I tried writing short stories and longer works – and before I had sufficient practice in the writing craft. I wrote this during a sleepless night as I listened to the walls in my new house creak. The Ghosts in the Walls One more glass. That’s all I need to have before I hear them. It starts with a whisper. Sometimes. Other times it’s louder than that – out of nowhere. It’s frightening. However, it’s terrifying when I listen for them and I hear nothing. That’s when they are listening to me. The ghosts in the walls. They only talk at night. I’ve tried to listen in the day, but I never hear anything. Until I lay in bed and it’s quiet for a while, then I hear the creaking. I try to fall asleep before it starts, but that’s a rarity. The tapping from inside the wall, each tap is either louder or softer than the previous. That’s the worst part. I never know how loud it’s going to be. A wretched, teasing finger, rapping in the wall. I’ve never seen anything when I look for them. Maybe I’m just hearing things. If I am, I’m crazy. But if it’s real, what does that make me? I don’t want to go to sleep. Just one more glass. I hear it now. The tapping. It’s getting louder. Softer. Waves of terror crash upon my[…] [Keep Reading]