This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Bigdismyname1234 on 2024-12-27 00:33:13+00:00.

When I moved into my new apartment, I thought it was going to be a fresh start. A chance to put the past behind me. The building was old but charming, with high ceilings, crown molding, and just enough of a retro vibe to make it feel unique. But the best part? My neighbor.

Her name was Emily. I didn’t meet her until the second day, when she knocked on my door to welcome me to the building. She was stunning—short dark hair, big hazel eyes, and a smile that could light up the dingy hallway. She offered me cookies she’d baked and joked about the quirks of the building.

“I hope you don’t mind thin walls,” she said, laughing. “You’ll probably hear everything.”

I assured her I didn’t mind, but that night, lying in bed, her words echoed in my head.

Thin walls.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. I’d hear her moving around, sometimes laughing on the phone or playing music. She had a soft voice, melodic, and I found it comforting. Harmless.

But soon, I noticed something strange.

It started with a low tapping noise, rhythmic and deliberate, coming from the wall between our apartments. It wasn’t random, like someone accidentally bumping into the wall. No, this was purposeful, almost as if… it was meant for me.

At first, I assumed it was Emily, maybe hanging up pictures or moving furniture. But when I saw her the next day, she didn’t mention it. She smiled warmly and asked how I was settling in, and I didn’t bring it up.

The tapping continued that night. Louder. Closer.

After a week, it wasn’t just tapping.

There were whispers, faint but distinct, bleeding through the wall. I couldn’t make out the words, but they were there, a constant murmur beneath the sounds of the apartment. It made my skin crawl.

I tried knocking on the wall, hoping she’d stop. The whispers went silent for a moment, and then, softly, almost playfully, came three knocks in response.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I was determined to figure out what was going on. I pressed my ear to the wall, listening. At first, all I heard was the faint hum of Emily’s music, but then something shifted.

It wasn’t her voice I heard. It was deeper, rougher, and it didn’t sound human.

I jerked back, heart pounding. What the hell was she doing in there?

That evening, I tried to confront her. I knocked on her door, rehearsing what I’d say. But when she answered, she looked so calm, so normal.

“Hey,” she said, tilting her head. “What’s up?”

The words caught in my throat. “Uh, nothing. Just wanted to say hi.”

She smiled again, and I walked back to my apartment, feeling like an idiot.

The wall grew worse after that.

The tapping became a scratching sound, like nails dragging across wood. I swore I could feel vibrations through the plaster, as if something was clawing its way through. The whispers turned into moans, guttural and wet, and I couldn’t ignore them anymore.

One night, I couldn’t take it. I started pounding on the wall, yelling for her to stop.

And then, I heard it.

A voice. Clear and unmistakable.

“Please, stop.”

It was her voice. Emily’s voice.

But it wasn’t coming from the other side of the wall.

It was coming from inside it.

Panic set in. I tore at the wall, ripping off chunks of plaster with my bare hands. My nails cracked and bled, but I didn’t care. I had to find her. I had to save her.

As I dug deeper, the smell hit me—rotting flesh, damp earth. The wall felt alive under my hands, pulsing and warm. I gagged, but I kept going, convinced I was close.

Then I saw it.

A pale, lifeless hand jutted out from the wall, the fingers curled as if in agony. I screamed and stumbled back, my mind racing. How long had she been in there? How had I not noticed?

And then, I heard it again.

“Please, stop.”

But this time, it wasn’t from the wall.

It was behind me.

I spun around, and there she was. Emily, standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with terror.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, clutching her phone. “I… I’m calling the police.”

I looked back at the wall, at the hand. It was gone. The hole I’d torn was empty, the plaster smooth as if untouched.

“Emily, no,” I stammered. “You don’t understand. There’s something—there’s something in the wall!”

She took a step back, tears streaming down her face. “You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? You… you’re the one leaving notes under my door. Scratching at the wall. You’re sick!”

The realization hit me like a freight train.

It wasn’t the wall. It wasn’t her.

It was me.

The truth unraveled in my mind like a fraying thread. The notes. The noises. The nights I’d spent pressing my ear to the wall, whispering to myself, imagining she could hear me. The obsession I’d convinced myself was harmless.

I was in that wall.

Emily’s voice broke through my spiral. “Stay away from me,” she said, backing into the hallway.

And as I stood there, staring at the hole I’d clawed into my own wall, I finally understood.

The thing I’d been hearing? The presence I’d been so afraid of?

It wasn’t trying to hurt me.

It was trying to warn her.

I didn’t resist when the police arrived. There was nothing left to deny. But even now, as I sit in this cell, staring at the cracked cinderblock walls, I can’t escape the feeling.

The scratching has started again.