Voices In The Walls

• Grace Winspear, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2021

We moved into this creepy old house in the middle of winter.
It's nice enough. The house used to be owned by a painter, and so in the hall there's this massive mural that he painted of terrified people. Their eyes wide and staring, their mouths hanging open in perpetual terror terror. It’s the only thing we dislike about the house.
That and the voices in the walls.
I heard them the first night we slept in the house.
I was walking up to my room, when I heard someone whispering. I spun around, but there was no one there. I listened in the hallway for several minutes, but I didn’t hear anything more. So I told myself it was only the wind, and thought nothing of it.
But the next day, as I walked past that mural, I heard it again.
Whispers.
They were louder than before. More insistent. I leant closer, I could almost make out the words…
I blanched when I finally understood what the voices were saying and hurried away. I buried my head under my pillow and told myself I imagined it, it wasn’t real.

Because I swear I heard the walls beg for help.

After that I try to never look at the mural. I take longer routes to avoid passing by it and I cover it with a drop sheet.
That seems to work because eventually I stop hearing those eerie voices, and although I keep the drop sheet up, I can walk freely down the passageway. Everything is fine now, it was probably just my overactive imagination.
One night I wake up suddenly. I try to get back to sleep but no matter what I try, I can't. So I get up to get a glass of water. As I pass through the corridor with the mural, I stop. I hear them again. The voices. They’re soft, but I can hear the words clearly:
Help us.
I lean closer and, despite my better instincts, pull the drop sheet off the mural. I study their faces carefully. There are all kinds of faces there; men, women, children, elderly people. I come closer. I reach out a hand to touch their oily faces. My hand connects with the paint-

Everything goes black.

My eyes flutter open to darkness, my head feels muddy. I sigh in relief as I realise that it was all just a dream and I’ve only just woken up. I turn to my side to check my alarm clock, only I don’t. I can’t move.
Slowly, my eyes adjust to the darkness and I can’t fathom what I’m looking at. I can see the hallway and the cup of water I must have spilled when I blacked out, but where are the paintings?
My sister walks past. She stops, and something is pulled over me, blocking my view. I try to talk, I try to scream, but al