Walls

Listen to me. Just listen, without interrupting, without objecting, without ridicule.

Lean closer and speak softly.

Don't wait until evening and the full moon rises. As soon as the sun begins to set, get ready, call your friends, go to their place or invite them over, go party hard, but don't stay in this house—your house—alone.

Because on nights like these, the walls have... shhh... ears.

You know, sometimes perfectly healthy people lock themselves in their apartments. They don't come out for a day, three, a week, don't answer their phone calls, don't access the World Wide Web. And then they're found hanged, suffocated by an open gas tap, starved to death... And so on, and so on, and so on.

Suicide, you say.

Maybe that's true in some cases. However, I know otherwise.

Before I tell you, have you ever woken up in the night from a light touch on your face or body, over the covers? Have you ever heard a jar fall from a shelf or a plate from a table, for no apparent reason?

I think so, although you probably didn't pay much attention, attributing it to a night draft or moths flying in through an open window. In vain.

When you wake up again from the same touch, do not open your eyes under any circumstances. And do not move. Just lie there until sounds emerge through the viscous silence—the ticking of a clock, the dripping of water from a leaking faucet, the sound of rain outside. Any sounds that indicate that the world around you is real.

Otherwise, you risk repeating the fate of hundreds of "suicides" who came before you.

 If you do open your eyelids and try to look around, you won't see anything special. At first.

And then reality will begin to blur, like a watercolor painting on which the artist accidentally spilled a glass of water. The walls will melt and flow like melting wax, and that same enormous, pale moon will peer through the window. Only now, incredibly close, grinning with a satisfied smile. In the moonlight, faces will emerge from the liquid, black-gray murk that used to be the walls. And after the faces, hands. Fragile hands, like women's, with thin wrists and brittle fingers.

The hands will lightly touch you—and you will hear. They, in whose bodies you live, will speak. On the first night—in whispers. They will speak about you. About your fears, your dirtiest secrets. They will whisper in your ears what you most fear to hear from loved ones, in their own voices. And you won't be able to ignore them—cold gray hands will grip your wrists with a stone grip.

By morning, they will be gone. They will simply dissipate like a haze, leaving behind a headache and fatigue.

When you go to wash your face, be prepared for the faucet to flow not with water, but with a dirty brown liquid smelling of rotten meat, iron, and fuel oil. A dry, mocking, metallic laugh will echo from the bathtub drain in response to your scream. The front door will jam when you try to run out into the hallway. When you try to call someone, your cell phone will not receive a signal, and your landline will simply stop working...

You will no longer be able to lose consciousness or fall asleep. Whispers and the icy touch of hands will wake you up or bring you back from oblivion. Every night. Until one day, a grip closes around your throat.

It won't hurt.

Ask, how do I know?

Did you notice my hand when you shook it when we met?

Goodbye.

See you tonight.