I’ve told this story three times now. Once to the police. Once to a jury. And once to my psychiatrist. This will be the last time I tell it.
We’ve always lived at 423 Stockholm Street, ever since I was a baby. So, there really wasn’t ever a time when I didn’t hear it. And as far back as I can remember, I’ve always known that there was another room on the other side of my wall.
When I was a very young child, I thought He was my friend. I would knock and He would knock back, though usually more slowly. I would giggle and He would moan. But as I got older, the noises started to scare me. I slowly realized that He wasn’t friendly and the scratching, moaning and sporadic knocking started to scare me.
I told my parents about it, terrified that He would come into my room one night and kill me. My mother rolled her eyes and told me it was mice in the walls. She never listened to me. My father agreed with her that it was animals but he hugged me and told me he would protect me, because I was scared.
Whenever I’d hear the noises, mostly at night, I would scream and my father would come running through the door a few seconds later to see what was the matter. I would point at the wall and he would smile, knock on the wall with his fist and say: “Quiet down in there or else!” The noise would stop, I would smile and Dad would hug me. He was always my protector. I miss him so much.
As I matured into a teenager, I would often invite friends to sleepover. We called ourselves the Stockholm Street Ghostbusters and spent hours doing seances to try to exorcise the entity (a demon, according to our research). We figured the scratching must be the demon etching satanic sigils and drawings on my wall. We eventually turned to a ouija board, until my mother found it and threw it out.
One night, running on heightened bravado from my friends, I waited until the loud scratching started again and I pounded on the wall, just like my dad. “QUIET DOWN IN THERE - YOU’RE ALREADY DEAD. THE LIVING ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!” My friends were impressed - for a moment. But I should not have provoked Him.
There was a loud, angry banging on the other side of the wall. We all screamed and hid in the closet, yelling for my dad. When he came running, my friends begged him to take them home. I was left alone while they were gone. I could feel Him, almost see Him impatiently pacing behind the wall, back and forth, 5 inches of wood and wallpaper between He and I. I was so scared I hid under my bed. Then the scratching started again.
And that was when I knew. It was trying to carve it’s way through the wall and into my bedroom. I screamed again and the banging resumed on the walls. It didn’t stop until the headlights of my dad’s car lit up my room. I continued screaming until my dad, always the hero, came sprinting into my room and banged on the wall. “Quiet down in there or else!” Then he held me, let me cry out my fears and told me it was okay if I slept on the couch. Sometimes I thought he believed it was all in my head. All those murmurs, the groans, the knocking, the scratching. But he never let on; never made me feel crazy. I never really understood my dad, but I wish I had. I’ll never see him again.
One night, when I was 16, I was awoken by an otherworldly, ear splitting scream. It was so loud, so high and so disturbing that I screamed in return, in terror. The scream ended abruptly and a moment later my dad came running in.
"You heard it!" I cried as my body wracked with sobs. "How could you not hear it? I know you heard it."
"Oh sweetie," my dad sat at the end of my bed. Hair disheveled with a far-off exhausted look in his middle-of-the-night bloodshot eyes. "Of course I heard it, but it was just an owl, I’m sure of it. We’ve seen a few in the neighborhood recently."
"No dad, listen to the walls." He nodded and we sat and listened. We listened for the bumps, the scratches, the whispers, the groans, the knocks, anything. I needed him to know. I needed to prove it to him, it wasn’t an animal. My dad was my protector and my hero. He should know the entity was there. That He was in there, trying everyday to get out. But for what reason, I didn’t know.
I didn’t hear the noises in the wall after that night, not for a few months. The wall suddenlty felt empty, like there was no one there anymore. Perhaps it had left. Perhaps it had been vanquished. Or sent back to Hell. I rested easy for awhile but in the back of my mind I always knew - it would be back.
When it did start again, I didn’t notice at first. When you’ve been experiencing something every night for 16 years straight, you tend to automatically catalog it in your brain as white noise and not register or process it at first. I think that’s what sealed our doom, in the end. The noises were so inherent to me, I failed to understand how unusual they really were, and always had been.
When I did realize I was hearing them again, I’m ashamed to say I felt almost relieved. I’d been so used to them, that I was almost lonely in the silence. Like sleeping in an empty house and leaving infomercials on so you don’t feel so alone.
The haunt progressed in the same cycle it had all my life. First, the groans, then then banging on the wall, then light tapping, and then, finally, the scratching. Always the scratching. It was a familiar routine. I’d told my dad about the scratching, about how I thought whatever it was scratching through the wood in my wall, trying to get out. My dad laughed and told me there was 2 inches of solid metal on the other side of my wall and that nothing, not mice, raccoons, feral cats or even ghost could come through my wall. And he should know, he’d built the house himself. And besides, he assured me, he would always be there to protect me. But he wasn’t.
I slept a little easier for awhile. I was moving out in a year and I knew I could deal with Him for 12 more months. I’d already lived with it for 16 years! I grew unconcerned, lazy, and complacent. I ignored the noises. Even started to bang back, again. I used logic to laugh the whole thing off. Whatever it was, it couldn’t come through the wall. If it could have, it would’ve done so years ago. And I sensed that more than anything else in the world, it wanted OUT. And since it was still in there, obviously, it was trapped. And I was right.
The night it happened is the most vivid memory I have. I was at a friend’s house when my mother called me and told me to come home immediately. This, in itself, was strange as my mother barely even acknowledged me and never, ever called me. We had almost no interaction - that was left entirely to my dad.
I drove the 5 miles back to my neighborhood, but had a hard time getting in. I started to panic as I slowly weaved through all the media vans, police cars, FBI vehicles and SWAT trucks. I had to walk the last three blocks to my house, and tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized that my street was at the epicenter of the melee. Because I knew. As soon as I saw my house I knew - my dad was dead. It had finally gotten out. And it had killed my dad.
I took off at a dead run, ignoring every authority figure that yelled at me to stop. I dodged in between the vehicles, pushing past dozens of people, ran through the crime scene tape and directly into my house - and there it was. Across from the sitting room, next to my bedroom, the hall closet stood with it’s door open. And in the back of the closet - another door.
For whatever reason, no one stopped me. I stumbled into the closet, through it, and out into the room I’d always known was there, But it wasn’t what I thought it’d be.
The media called my dad The Skinner of Stockholm. And from what I saw in that room, it was a fitting name. There were knives, all sorts really. And there were metal devices stacked along one wall, at least a hundred of them. Most I didn’t recognize, but a few I had seen in history books. There were 4 set of manacles, a wall of chains and rolls of duct tape. In the middle of the room there was a flat table, which was, very obviously, blood soaked. A tall stool sat at the head of the table.
But the worst was the wall. The wall that boarded my room was covered, every inch of it, in carvings. But the carvings weren’t satanic or evil like I’d thought. The carvings were words.
Jacob, I love you. Diana Hobb
Tell my father I forgive him. Brian Woodlin
Tara, I’m so sorry. Michael Mcnulty
Tell my daughters they were my world. Angela Casterly
According to the evidence file, there were over 60 of these messages. I made myself read every single one. They haunt me every night. While I had spent ten years tormenting them, they would now forever torment me.
Even though I live in a hospital now, I still hear the scratching. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the scratching. I haven’t slept in a year and my doctor says I will die soon. I spend my days watching news coverage of my father’s trial. Yesterday he was sentenced to death. I spend every night staring at the walls. The drugs don’t work, though they try every day, I can never sleep, never. I always hear the scratching. And I always will.
—
By reddit user The_Dalek_Emperor
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