You’re familiar with that heart-wrenching moment when you’re teetering at the peak of a rollercoaster, right? That fleeting sensation that takes hold just as you plunge downwards—those initial few seconds. Now, I know some of you thrill-seekers swear it’s exhilarating, but let’s be real—it’s horrifying. Completely terrifying.
That’s exactly how I felt two hours ago.
Clink.
I reside in one of those duplex homes—split down the middle. One side is mine, while the other side? Empty. Vacant. It’s been on the market for ages. No one calls it home.
Now, don’t get any fancy ideas. It’s not glamorous. I rent it mostly because I need the space for my art. The layout’s simple: downstairs is a modest living room, a kitchen, and a tiny half-bath. Upstairs, two rooms—one serves as my bedroom, the other, an art studio, since the fumes of oil paints would make sleeping in that room impossible.
Earlier, I was in the hallway upstairs, hanging some paintings. That hallway, you see, shares a wall with the empty house. I had a hammer in one hand, a nail in the other, ready to strike. But as I lifted my arm, I stumbled. Out of nowhere, I tripped—something I never do. Instinctively, I pulled the hand holding the nail back to avoid smashing my finger, but the hammer? It hit the wall, dead-on. The wall crumbled like paper—cheap, American drywall.
For a second, I just stood there, dumbfounded, gazing at the hole I had unintentionally created.
What stunned me even more was how thin the wall was. Thin enough for me to see straight into the dark, uninhabited space next door. It sent a chill through me. The idea of living next to an empty, untouched house had always been unnerving.
Suddenly, I heard a noise from the other side. At first, it was puzzling. Then, panic gripped me, followed swiftly by revulsion. Please, no rats. That’s all I ask.
Cautiously, I leaned in closer, trying to peer through the hole. The room on the other side must have had windows, or so I hoped, because the darkness felt suffocating. But my thoughts were muddled—how had I even punched through to the other side? I mean, sure, the walls were thin, but this?
Despite knowing better, I put my eye right up to the gap. A bad idea, I know. But I did it anyway, even though it felt entirely unsanitary. The thought of rats scampering around made my skin crawl. My thoughts raced, but then—everything stopped.
I jerked back, my eyes wide, my breath caught in my throat.
There it was. The plummet of the rollercoaster. Staring back at me, from the other side, was an eye.
It wasn’t the comforting silence I had grown accustomed to in this empty home. No, this was something else—a silence that felt alive, creeping through the walls, and it wasn’t alone.
Clink.
You might wonder how I knew that the eye was mine, staring back at me. Well, you see, I have a scar on my left eyelid. I got it as a kid after walking into a wire. Luckily, it didn’t blind me. Two hours ago, I saw that very scar through the wall.
My brain scrambled for an explanation. It’s a mirror. It has to be. The room next door must have a double-sided mirror on the wall. Right?
I pressed my finger into the hole, expecting the cool touch of glass.
I felt skin.
I’ve never screamed so loudly in my life. Or maybe I gagged first? I can’t remember the order. My throat is still raw from the scream. Rational thought completely escaped me because what had just happened defied any rationality. Could it be a corpse?
No, I heard movement.
Since then, I’ve been pacing my living room, occasionally stopping to type this out, hoping someone can offer advice.
Clink.
The noise continues—this metallic clink, coming from the hole. I first heard it an hour ago, barely perceptible. Now, it’s louder. Almost unbearable.
I glance over and see it again—pins, falling through the hole and hitting my floor.
Clink.
Another pin drops, and then another.
What terrifies me more? The fact that someone—perhaps me—is on the other side? Or that whatever it is knows I’ve seen it?
This wall is fragile, and I fear something could burst through at any moment, from either side. Tonight, I’m staying at a friend’s house.
Tomorrow? I have no idea. Wish me luck.
As I zip up my bag to leave, I hear another clink. I turn, and from the doorway, I see it again—an eye peeking through the hole.
I rush to my car, hit ‘post,’ and start the engine. There’s one last thing I need to tell you—there are no windows in the upstairs room where the hole leads.
I don’t know what’s in there. Or how long it’s been lurking. And honestly? I don’t want to know.