I approached the pile of crumbled plaster, trembling. A cloud of dust invaded my nostrils and eyes, but I did not stop. I felt something pulling my soul towards that empty space. My heart raced wildly in my chest, and my hands were as cold as stone.
Inside, in the hollow of the wall, there was a box. Not an ordinary one, but a solid wood box, carved with old Romanian motifs — designs that reminded me of my grandmother’s dowry chest. It was dusty but intact, as if it had been carefully hidden there for a purpose.
I pulled it out with difficulty. It was heavier than it looked. Under the lid, found with trembling hands, lay a collection of strange objects: an old, yellowed photograph of a family I did not recognize, a bundle of dried herbs, a small silver bell, and… a journal.
I opened it slowly. The writing was old, slightly slanted, like that of grandparents who had learned to write with a fountain pen by the light of a lamp. On the first page, it read: “If you are reading this, it means you have been chosen.”
I froze. Inside the house, there was a heavy silence. It felt as if the walls were waiting to see what would happen next. I continued reading. The journal belonged to a woman named Ilinca, who had lived in that house nearly a hundred years ago. She wrote about how her husband had gone mad after digging a new cellar and discovering “something” — a faceless stone statuette that resembled nothing from known folklore.
Ilinca wrote that since then, whispers could be heard in the house every night. Their children dreamed the same things: a tall, black silhouette with hollow eyes, asking them “to open the walls.”
Ilinca’s husband disappeared one rainy night. The next day, in the place where he had slept, only the statuette was found. The woman then bricked up the walls with her own hands, sealing everything — the journal, the evidence, the memories.
With each page I read, I felt my breath shorten. In the end, Ilinca noted: “If you have opened the box, you can no longer close the evil. The only hope is not to speak to it. Do not let it in.”
The journal fell from my hands.
That night, I dreamed for the first time of hollow eyes.
The house seemed to tremble. The next day, an elderly neighbor came with a box of sweet bread, as he usually did during holidays. I asked him if he knew who had lived here before. He paused for a moment, then said: “This house… shouldn’t have been rebuilt. In the old days, it was said that the ground ‘has no peace’. You found something, didn’t you?”
I nodded. I didn’t have the courage to show him.
From that day on, I began to do what the elders did. I placed dried basil at the door. Incense every morning. Old prayers from my grandmother, whispered softly. People forget quickly, but I can’t anymore.
Because I know what I heard. What I saw.
And above all, I know what is still there.
If at night your walls make sounds… don’t pretend you don’t hear.
Maybe they are calling you. Or maybe… they are just waiting for you to open them.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to real events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
