"This floor plan's all wrong."
Jake's voice was tight, his eyes fixed on the wall that separated the master bedroom from the study next door. We'd both stepped out into the hallway, our hands brushing the drywall like we expected it to give way under our fingers.
Load-bearing walls in residential buildings ran between six and nine inches thick, max. This one? It had to be three feet wide, easy. It was swallowing up three, maybe four square feet of the master bedroom space—space that should've made the room feel bigger, roomier, like a proper master suite. No developer in their right mind would waste that kind of square footage on a wall. Not unless they were hiding something.
And the worst part? The wall was completely hidden by that built-in wardrobe in the master bedroom. Custom-made, floor-to-ceiling, solid wood—so heavy it was glued straight to the wall studs. The Carters had kept it when they moved in, too broke to replace it, too oblivious to what was lurking behind it.
We hurried back into the bedroom, yanking open the wardrobe doors. It was empty—clothes, shoes, all gone. The Carters had bailed on this place like it was on fire, and who could blame them?
I ran my knuckles along the back panel of the wardrobe, the wood solid and smooth under my fingers—until my palm pressed against a soft spot, right in the center. My brow furrowed.
"Ethan? What's up?" Jake called, noticing my face twist.
I didn't answer. I pressed harder, my fingers sinking into the wood like it was damp cardboard. There was a sickening crunch, and a chunk of the panel caved in, oozing dark, sticky gunk that smelled like rot and iron.
"Whoa, dude! You broke it!" Leo yelped, his voice rising an octave. "We're gonna have to pay for that!"
Pete was already backing away, his eyes wide. But Jake and I? We went dead silent, our blood turning to ice. Sweat broke out on my forehead, cold and clammy.
"Something's seeped through the wall," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "It's eating the wood away."
I didn't have to say what something was. We both knew. The stench alone was a dead giveaway—thick, cloying, impossible to mistake.
This was bigger than a haunted house. This was a crime scene.
Jake didn't waste a second. He pulled out his phone, his hands shaking so bad he could barely tap the screen, and dialed Mr. Hu—the Carters' buyer, the guy who'd been screaming about "eyes in the walls" for weeks. He didn't spill the whole truth over the line, just told him to get over to Maplewood Estates now, that we needed to talk about the refund.
Mr. Hu showed up alone an hour later, his wife nowhere in sight—blessing, considering she'd threatened to sue us twice already for selling her a "death trap." He was a guy in his late forties, balding at the temples, wearing a rumpled suit that looked like it hadn't seen a dry cleaner in months. He froze when he saw us standing in the master bedroom, holding sledgehammers and crowbars.
"What the hell are you doing?" he sputtered, his eyes darting from the tools to the broken wardrobe.
"Mr. Hu. A question first." I led him over to the wardrobe, my heart hammering in my chest. "This wardrobe—was it here when you moved in? When I showed you the house?"
He nodded, confused. "Yeah! You pointed it out yourself! Said it was solid oak, custom-built. We kept it 'cause we couldn't afford a new one. Why?"
I glanced at Jake, and he gave me a sharp, grim nod.
"I'm gonna tear this thing down," I said, my voice steady despite the way my hands were shaking. "And I need you to promise you won't sue us for it."
Mr. Hu's eyes bugged out of his head. "Tear it down? It's perfectly good—"
"There's a body behind this wall," I cut him off.
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy.
Mr. Hu went rigid. His face drained of all color. He stared at me for a long, terrible second, then slowly, slowly nodded.
I didn't wait for him to say anything else. I grabbed the sledgehammer, hefted it, and swung.
The back panel of the wardrobe was already rotting, so it didn't stand a chance. It splintered apart with a sickening crack, sending chunks of wood and that dark, sticky gunk flying everywhere. Pete and Leo screamed, diving out of the way. Mr. Hu let out a noise that was half gasp, half whimper, stumbling backward until he hit the wall.
And then we saw it.
The wall behind the wardrobe wasn't just a wall. It was a sealed chamber, plastered over with white paint that was now bubbling and peeling, oozing that same dark rot. And beneath the paint—oh God—there was a shape. A human shape, pressed up against the drywall, its outline clear as day: a head, shoulders, a torso, limbs splayed like someone had been trying to claw their way out.
The stench hit us then, full force—rot and decay and something metallic, so strong it made my eyes water. I gagged, clamping a hand over my mouth. Jake was retching in the corner, his face green. Pete and Leo were hugging each other in the doorway, whimpering like kids. Mr. Hu? He was frozen in place, staring at the wall like he'd seen a ghost.
Someone had killed a person in this room. Bricked them up behind the wall. Covered it with paint, built a wardrobe over it, and pretended like nothing had ever happened. For years, that body had been rotting away, seeping into the wood, oozing into the air, watching the Carters sleep.
No wonder they'd felt eyes on them.
They had been watched.
Jake's hand clamped down on my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin so hard it hurt. His voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat.
"Ethan. Call the cops. Now."
My hand fumbled for my phone in my pocket, my fingers shaking so bad I dropped it twice. I finally grabbed it, my thumb hovering over the 911 button.
And that's when I heard it—a soft, scraping sound, coming from inside the wall. Slow, deliberate. Like someone was troweling wet concrete.
Right where the body's hand should've been.