The scratching started at exactly 3:33 AM.
A clean, consistent rhythm.
Like fingernails on wood.
Two short.
One long.
Pause.
Repeat.
I listened for an hour before I finally knocked back.
Same pattern.
Two short.
One long.
And the moment I did, everything stopped.
No echo.
No response.
No sound at all.
Until the wiring in the wall vibrated.
Not audibly.
Visibly.
The outlet near my bed sparked—just once.
Then… the wall itself knocked back.
Same pattern.
Only deeper.
More deliberate.
Almost like a reply.
I grabbed a flashlight and pressed my ear against the drywall.
What I heard chilled me:
"You're not alone. You've never been alone. We were just waiting for you to notice."
It wasn't a voice.
Not exactly.
More like a thought, carried through wood and copper.
The next day, I pried open the panel.
Behind the drywall: insulation, wires, dust.
And paper.
Taped to the inside.
Yellowed, curling.
I pulled it out carefully.
It was handwritten. Faded pencil.
"If you're reading this, it means the walls have chosen you."
"We are the forgotten tenants."
"We paid our rent in silence."
"We stayed in the crawlspaces, the ventilation, the blueprints."
"Until the building stopped remembering us."
"Now we remember each other."
"Let us out."
Attached was a diagram.
Not of the floor plan—but of the wiring network.
Circles labeled with names.
Some crossed out.
Some underlined.
One was circled twice in red:
"Unit 3C – Current Conduit"
My unit.
I stepped back.
The wall shifted.
Not physically—but spatially.
As if the proportions of my room were slightly wrong.
The shadows longer.
The corners deeper.
Like the geometry was bending to make space for something new.
Or someone returning.
That night, the knocking resumed.
This time, from inside the light fixtures.
I flicked the switch.
Nothing.
But the bulb pulsed.
Dim.
Bright.
Dim.
Bright.
Morse code.
I recorded it. Translated it.
The message:
"WE WERE NEVER EVICTED.THE BUILDING JUST CLOSED ITS EYES."
I had to know more.
So I visited the old archives again—city records, construction notes, utility blueprints.
There was a permit filed in 1949:
"Request to install crawlspace wiring conduits between units. Reason: tenant overflow."
Tenant overflow?
There were no records of extra residents.
No lawsuits.
No deaths.
Just… removals.
Silent ones.
Unwritten.
Forgotten.
Erased.
But not by accident.
By design.
Back at my unit, I pulled open another section of wall behind the kitchen.
This time I found bones.
Tiny.
Delicate.
But not human.
Not animal either.
Too symmetrical.
Too precise.
Like the framework of a memory that had been given form.
Taped to the beam nearby was another note:
"The first contract promised housing.The later ones demanded silence."
"We didn't break the lease.We became it."
I slept with the lights on.
Didn't help.
They flickered anyway.
At 4:44 AM, I heard breathing behind the mirror.
Slow.
Measured.
Not menacing.
Just… patient.
Waiting.
I knocked on the glass.
Three taps.
It fogged slightly.
And through the condensation, words appeared:
"ROOM 0B OPENS DOORSBUT CLOSES FLESH."
"SOME OF US SLIPPED THROUGH."
I blinked—and the mirror cleared.
But now I could see something inside the reflection.
Not behind me.
Inside.
In the mirror-world version of the room—someone stood beside my bed.
But I was alone.
I turned around.
No one.
Turned back to the mirror—still there.
Closer now.
Looking at me.
Not a ghost.
Not a man.
But a space where a tenant used to be.
Shaped like memory.
Filled with intention.
The next morning, I didn't wake up in my bed.
I woke up inside the wall.
Pressed between beams.
Dust in my nose.
Light flickering through a crack in the drywall.
And from the other side, I heard myself—sleeping.
I screamed.
Or tried to.
But the wall muffled it.
Swallowed it.
Accepted it.
A new tenant, placed neatly among the forgotten.
Then the knock came.
Same rhythm.
Two short. One long.
And suddenly, the wall split.
Not broke—opened.
And I was back in my room.
Standing beside my bed.
No dust.
No time passed.
Just a note on the pillow:
"Welcome to the other lease."
I checked the contract scroll.
Unsealed it.
The ink shifted.
A new clause had appeared:
"Occupancy is not limited to physical space.The walls house what the rooms cannot."
And next to my name:
"[Status: Dual Residency Confirmed]"
What does that mean?
I don't know yet.
But I sleep more lightly now.
Because sometimes, I wake up inside the mirror.
And sometimes, the mirror wakes up inside me.