When little Sophie was three, she began a strange habit. Every afternoon, she would sit cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom and talk softly to the wall. At first, her mother thought it was cute — children have imaginary friends, after all. But Sophie wasn’t pretending. She would pause, tilt her head, and nod, as if someone really was speaking back.
“What’s your friend’s name?” her mother once asked, trying to play along. Sophie smiled and whispered, “He doesn’t have one. He just says he lives here.”
The answer sent a shiver through her. The house was old, with creaky beams and a basement that no one liked going into. But she brushed it off as childish imagination. Until the night Sophie’s mother overheard her.
She had paused outside her door, curious, when she heard her daughter giggling — and then another voice. Faint. Low. Not hers. She flung the door open, but the room was empty except for Sophie, who looked up innocently and said, “You scared him away.”
From that night on, strange things began happening. Toys would be found lined up neatly against the wall, though Sophie insisted she hadn’t touched them. Drawings appeared in her coloring books — not of princesses or castles, but of dark shapes and eyes. And always, when asked, Sophie would shrug: “He helped me draw them.”
The breaking point came one evening when Sophie’s mother tucked her into bed. She kissed her forehead, switched off the light, and began to close the door. That’s when she heard it — clear as day.
A voice. From inside the wall.
“Goodnight, Sophie.”
The mother froze, every hair on her body standing on end. Sophie, half-asleep, smiled and whispered back, “Goodnight.”
They moved out of the house a week later.
But sometimes, late at night, Sophie still presses her ear to the wall of her new bedroom. Waiting. Listening. And once, just once, she swears she heard the faintest whisper answer her back.
