I sat frozen, the book trembling in my hands. She’s in the walls.

Was it dementia? Delusion? Or something she saw before the end that no one believed?

I checked the dates again. In the weeks leading up to her final entry, her handwriting became jagged. She wrote about whispers behind the drywall, scratching at night, cold air leaking from outlets.

I thought of the faint tapping I’d heard lately. I blamed it on plumbing. Or wind.

But then I remembered—two nights before she died, I caught her staring at the hallway vent. Mouth shut. Eyes wide. Frozen.

I stood, heart pounding, and approached that same vent. Removed the cover. Shined my phone’s flashlight inside.

Nothing.

Then I noticed the drywall behind it had been patched. Sloppily. Recently.

I ran to the garage, grabbed a hammer, and broke through the panel.

Behind it was a hollowed space. A small room.

A blanket. Food wrappers.

And a phone.

Still recording.

The lesson?
Sometimes the enemy isn’t who you think—it’s who’s already inside your house, learning your routine, watching from the shadows. And when the silence ends… it’s already too late to pretend you didn’t hear it.