Not gentle. Not dramatic. Just three loud taps on the wall beside Daniel’s bed every night at exactly 3:11 a.m.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
At first he blamed the pipes in his apartment building. Old places made noises. Saskatoon winters shifted foundations. Radiators clicked. Walls creaked. But after the seventh night, curiosity replaced annoyance.
He pressed his ear against the wall.
The tapping stopped.
Then something tapped back from inside the wall.
Daniel laughed nervously and stepped away. “Very funny,” he muttered, assuming a neighbour was messing with him.
The next morning, he found scratches on the drywall beside his bed. Three long grooves, deep enough to expose the plaster underneath. He stared at them for a long time before leaving for work.
Things worsened slowly after that.
His dog, Murphy, refused to enter the bedroom. The animal would whine and shake in the hallway, claws scraping desperately against the floor whenever Daniel tried pulling him inside. One night Murphy actually bit him hard enough to draw blood.
Then came the dreams.
Daniel began dreaming of a woman standing in the corner of his room. Tall. Thin. Her skin grey like wet ash. Her mouth hung open impossibly wide, stretching almost to her ears. She never moved.
She only watched.
Every dream ended the same way.
She would whisper:
“Let me wear you.”
Daniel stopped sleeping.
By the second week, his co-workers noticed changes. He forgot conversations. He stared blankly at computer screens for hours. Sometimes he caught himself standing motionless in the office washroom with no memory of walking there.
But the worst part was losing time.
One Friday evening he sat down on his couch at 8 p.m.
The next thing he knew, he was standing barefoot outside the old cemetery near the river at 4 in the morning.
Snow covered his feet.
His hands were muddy.
And someone else’s fingernails were embedded under his skin.
He drove home in a panic.
Inside the apartment, Murphy was dead.
The dog lay twisted near the bedroom door, neck bent at an unnatural angle. The room itself smelled rotten, like meat left in the sun. Written across the wall above the bed, in dripping black letters, were the words:
YOU LEFT ME ALONE.
Daniel collapsed crying.
Then the voice spoke for the first time while he was awake.
Not from the room.
From inside his head.
“You’re thinner now,” it whispered. “Easier to climb into.”
He screamed and smashed mirrors, lamps, windows — anything to drown it out. But the voice only laughed softly.
Days passed.
Neighbours later reported hearing Daniel talking to someone constantly. Sometimes arguing. Sometimes begging.
Sometimes laughing in a voice that did not sound human.
Finally, one tenant called police after hearing horrible screams from the apartment for nearly an hour.
When officers forced the door open, they found Daniel sitting calmly on the bedroom floor.
Smiling.
Every light bulb in the apartment had burst.
The walls were covered floor to ceiling with thousands of scratches.
And Daniel’s eyes…
His eyes were completely black.
One officer asked quietly, “Sir… are you hurt?”
Daniel slowly tilted his head.
Then, in a voice layered with something wet and ancient beneath it, he answered:
“Daniel is sleeping.”
The smile widened farther than human muscles should allow.
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