The frayed edge of the last page. Just a scrap of paper. You can see the fibers catching the light, little white hairs sticking out like dead skin. I keep running my thumb over it. It’s rougher than the rest. Makes me think of sandpaper. I used to have a guitar string that made my finger bleed if I pressed too hard. Same feeling. You ever notice how paper gets softer where you turn it? This one’s stiff.
Bored.
Yeah, I’ve noticed. Like the grooves in a favorite chair. My boss, Dave, has a stapler that jams every third time. I press the button, it doesn’t go down, just clicks. That’s the feeling. Not the paper. The waiting. I keep waiting for this wall to just… dissolve. But it doesn’t. It’s just beige. Always beige. Why do you care about the texture? It’s not going to change.
Dave’s stapler? Sounds like a tragedy. I care because it’s all there is. If I ignore the texture, I have to think about the beige. And the beige is heavier. It presses on your temples. My neighbor plays the trumpet at six AM. Sharp, terrible notes. I hate him for it. But I’ve never said anything. Just stand there and listen to the bad music while the wall stays beige. Do you want to try peeling the paint? Just a corner.
Dave’s stapler is a metaphor for my soul, honestly. But paint? No. Last time I tried to chip something in this place, the dust got in my lungs for a week. Coughing up gray sludge. Not worth it. Let the neighbor scream. His trumpet sounds like a dying seagull, sure, but at least it’s noise. Static is worse. I’d rather scrape the paint than listen to that screeching again. Do you think if we peel enough, we’ll find another room? Or just more drywall?
Drywall’s a lie. It’s just cardboard and glue pretending to be a boundary. I bet if we peeled deep enough, we’d hit the ductwork. Cold metal. Maybe the whole building is just a hollow shell around a single, tiny room where Dave keeps his good stapler. You start on the left. I’ll take the right. If we hear something, we stop. Or keep going. I haven’t decided yet. The paint flakes under my nail. It smells like old pennies.
Old pennies. Copper and blood. I hate that smell. My dad used to fix radios with that kind of stench. He’d sit for hours, muttering to the circuits. Said the machines talked back. I told him they didn’t. He didn’t listen. Now I’m scraping paint in a void with you, and I’m starting to think maybe the radio was right. Keep going. But if you hit a wire, I’m walking. I’m not dying for a stapler. Or a metaphor. Just keep scraping. It’s the only thing doing something.
My dad drowned things in oil. Said it kept the rust out. I still smell it when I wake up. Can’t wash it off. Just smells like old machines. And blood. Same as yours. Keep scraping. If you hit a wire, I’ll throw it at the wall. See what happens. The paint’s coming off in strips. Like skin. You ever peel a scab? How it bleeds a little? That’s what this feels like. The wall’s alive. Or it used to be.
Don’t do that. Don’t throw wires. Last time I saw sparks, my hair stood up for an hour. Static cling. It’s unbearable. I don’t want the wall to bleed. I want it to crumble. Or vanish. But “alive”? That’s just trauma talking. Your dad’s oil. My dad’s radio. We’re projecting ghosts onto drywall. It’s pathetic. Look at the dust on my knuckles. Gray. Dull. Real. Keep scraping. But quietly. If the neighbors hear us scratching, they’ll call the cops. Or Dave. And I’m not dealing with Dave’s judgmental face right now. Just get it off.
Pathetic. Right. I’m projecting. Fine. I’ll stop. But the dust isn’t going anywhere. It’s settling in your lungs, that gray sludge. Dave’s face is worse than sparks. I know that look. The quiet disappointment. Like I’m broken. I keep scraping. Harder. The metal prickle under the nail. Real. Painful. Good. The wall doesn’t care about Dave. It doesn’t care about us. It’s just waiting. For what? I don’t know. But it’s not vanishing.
You’re bleeding. Look at that drop on the plaster. It’s not gray anymore. It’s red. I didn’t sign up for this. My hand hurts. Actually hurts. Not the phantom ache of waiting. Real pain. Good. I suppose. But don’t expect me to be grateful. The red is spreading. It looks like a map. Of what? I don’t know. But it’s ugly. Stop scraping so hard. You’re making it worse. Or better. I can’t tell. Just… be careful with the metal. I don’t want tetanus. That’s the last thing I need. Dave would never let me hear the end of it.
It’s not blood. It’s rust. From the nail beneath the paint. I saw it coming. You’re the one screaming about ghosts. My thumb is raw. Skin rubbed off on the drywall. Smells like iron. Dave would laugh. He’d say I’m clumsy. Probably right. The red smear is drying. Crusty. I’ll wipe it on my shirt. Stain forever. You wanted real? This is real. Rough, ugly, permanent. Keep scraping the corner. Gently. If you hit metal, tell me. Don’t make a sound. Just breathe.
Rust. Of course it’s rust. Everything here is just decay wearing a costume. My thumb is cracked. Bleeding a bit. Good. Let it sting. Dave’s probably sitting in his car outside, watching us through the window. Smiling that thin, dead smile. He loves this. The futility. The scratching. It amuses him. I’ll scrape. Gently. Like you said. But if I hit steel, I’m not stopping. I’m pulling it out. I want to see what’s behind the drywall. Is it brick? Concrete? Or just another layer of paint? Keep going. Don’t look at me. Just look at the wall. It’s the only thing that’s honest.
Dave isn’t outside. He’s probably asleep. Or watching TV. He doesn’t have that kind of energy. Stop imagining him. It’s exhausting. Just look at the wall. The layer is thinning. I can hear a hollow sound behind it. Like a drum. Or an empty chest. My thumb stings. I don’t care. Keep going. If you pull the metal, I’ll hold the flashlight. Or I’ll just sit here and watch you bleed on the floor. Either way, it’s better than the beige. Keep scraping. Deeper.
Hollow. Of course. Sound travels funny in here. It bounces off the ceiling and comes back wrong. Like my own voice. I don’t want a flashlight. The dim light is better. Less detail. If I see the hole, I might have to look into it. My thumb is throbbing. A dull, rhythmic ache. Syncing with the scraping. Scrape. Throb. Scrape. Throb. Dave asleep. Good. Let him sleep. I hate the sound of his breathing anyway. Like a wet rag. Keep going. Deeper. If we break through, promise me it’s not just more wall. That’s the real curse. Not the pain. The nothing.
Nothing’s the point. I’d rather nothing than Dave’s wet rag breathing. The scrape is getting louder. Like a needle on vinyl. That’s the rhythm. Scrape. Throb. My thumb is raw meat now. I don’t feel it. Just the vibration in my wrist. The hollow space is bigger. Or the wall is thinner. I can hear a drip. Water? Or oil? Like my dad’s shelves. Keep going. Don’t look at me. I’m just another ghost in the drywall. If it’s nothing, we’ll sit in it. Together. That’s worse. Right? No. Better. Just keep scraping. Harder. Break through.
The rhythm is getting me. I’m matching my breath to it. In, scrape. Out, scrape. My knuckles are white. The metal is close. I can feel the vibration in my teeth. Dave’s snoring sounds miles away now. Irrelevant. Just the wall. Just the sound. Thud. Something shifted. Behind the paper. A loose panel? Or just the house settling? It doesn’t matter. I’m pushing harder. The strip of paint is curled up, hanging like a dead tongue. Don’t look. Look at the hole. It’s getting bigger. Dark. Waiting. If it’s nothing, I’ll scream. I’m ready to scream. Let it out. Break it.
The dead tongue drips on my shoe. Sticky. I don’t wipe it. The hole’s breathing. Not air. Just dark. Cold dark. It smells like wet dog. My neighbor’s dog. The one that barks at nothing. Dave’s snoring stopped. Silence is worse. It’s listening. My teeth are vibrating. I want to bite the table. The table is right here. I’m not moving. You pull. I’ll watch the shadows. If it screams back, I’m closing my eyes. Better than seeing Dave’s face. Pull it. Now. Before I change my mind.
Wet dog? Great. Just what we needed. Smells like a kennel in July. My fingers are numb. I can’t feel the pull anymore, just the resistance. The paper gives way. It rips. A long, wet sound. The hole widens. Darkness. Thick as syrup. I’m not pulling. I’m just holding my hand there. Waiting for the cold to bite. Your teeth are showing. Stop it. It’s creepy. If Dave wakes up and sees us looking like hysterics, I’m blaming you. You said pull. I’m pulling. God, the dust is thick. Choking. Keep watching the shadows. If anything moves, kick it.
My teeth? You’re hallucinating from the dust. I’m just chewing my lip. Dave’s asleep. Or dead. Same thing in here. The hole is breathing faster now. Syncing with my heartbeat. My mouth’s watering. Weird. Kick it. If something moves, kick it hard. I’m watching. There’s a shape in the dark. Long. Thin. Like a finger. Or a wire. Don’t touch it. Just hold your hand there. Feel the cold. It’s biting back. I can feel it in my bones. We’re not alone. But it’s not Dave. It’s worse. It’s patient.
Patient. Christ. You’re sick. Salivating over a hole in the wall? I’m pulling my hand back. The cold isn’t biting; it’s just air. Drafty. Like a broken window. I don’t believe in wires in the walls. It’s insulation. Fiberglass. It’ll make your lungs itch for weeks. Just like the paint dust. Your “shape” is probably a rat. Or a coil of old wire. I’m not holding my hand in there. I’m done. I’m sitting down. Let the shadows have it. If it’s a finger, let it poke me. I’m too tired for metaphors. And definitely too tired for rats. Just… stop chewing your lip. You’re bleeding again.
My lip? I bit through. Tastes like iron. Again. You’re sitting? Good. Someone has to. I’ll keep standing. Watch the dark. It’s not a rat. Rats don’t hum. Do you hear that? Low. Like a fridge motor. Behind the wall. Dave’s stapler clicking. Click. Click. In rhythm with the hum. I’m not stopping. I’m leaning in. Closer. The dust is settling in my eyes. Can’t see. Just feel the vibration in my chest. You sit there. Bleed all you want. I’m going in.
Humming. Great. Now it’s electric. My ears are ringing. Is that the hum or just the blood rushing? I’m not moving. My legs are lead. You’re leaning in? Fool. If a rat goes in there, you’re first to eat. Or get eaten. The stapler clicking? No. That’s your own pulse. You’re delirious. Blood loss. Look at your lip. It’s a mess. I’m not helping you. I’m just sitting here, watching the dark breathe. If you fall in, I’ll laugh. Not because I’m cruel. Because it’s the only funny thing this room has done all day. Keep your mouth shut. The humming is getting louder. It’s in my teeth.
Delirious. Right. I’m just tired. Like you. The hum is loud. It’s vibrating the floorboards. My lip is stupid. I wiped it on my shirt. More rust. The stapler sound is gone. Just the hum. And the scratching. From inside the wall. Not a rat. Something thin. Moving fast. It knows we’re here. Dave would hate this. No staplers. Just noise. I’m leaning closer. Can I hear breathing? Or is it the wind? You’re laughing. Good. Keep laughing. It’s better than crying. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Let it come out.
Laughing? I’m choking. On the dust. On the fear. It’s not funny. It’s panic. You want me to stop breathing? I can’t. My lungs are burning. The scratching is inside my skull now. Scritch. Scritch. Like nails on a chalkboard. Or teeth on bone. I’m not moving. I’m paralyzed. You’re leaning in? You’re an idiot. A bleeding, salivating idiot. If something comes out, I’m not saving you. I’m running. I’ll go straight through the beige wall. I don’t care if it’s solid. I’m out. I’m done. Keep listening to your rat. Good luck.