Wall-y
The stories they tell are the best I’ve ever heard. They’re
scary
unnerving
unhearable
unbearable
unheard of
speechless. Their word are simply a jumble of sounds; of noises, of white noises that glow in the blackness dark of the house.
I brought a lantern one time. It didn’t help. There was a sudden surge of wind and it blew it all out; electricity and all. Someone tried to take a photo but failed to capture the most important part of it all: the sounds. The walls creak with their old bones and tell old stories and share old secrets and keep old habits and know old tricks.
And I can’t listen sometimes, because it’s too much– or not enough– or everything all at once. I forgot where the door is.
They never stop, either. They are
relentless
unstoppable
impossible
impenetrable
insanity
omnipotent, and I’ll never forget them. I search for words to compare to theirs; but it is unspeakable.
There were words on the walls. Scratchings– harsh and rough, but there.
? ????? ?? ? ?????
? ?? ? ? ? ? ?? ?
? ???? ???? ? ? ????
???? ?? ?? ? ? ? ? ?? ??
? ????? ? ? ? ?????
? ??
? ?
?? ????? ????? ????? ? ?????
?? ?? ? ??? ? ? ? ? ??? ?
? ?? ???? ? ? ? ? ? ?
? ? ?? ?? ? ????? ? ? ?
??? ????? ? ?? ?? ?
???
I scratched them off myself. They were gone for a second but they came back, didn’t they?
But they wouldn’t go away. They were so deep in the wall, it almost seemed like they grew there, like they were meant to be there from years previous and years to come. From other people who came and are going to come into.
The echoes no longer scared any of us; it was the light that did so after a few nights. We put out the lanterns and cracked the bulbs, without the help of the wind.
Who knew there were noxious fumes in them?
We didn’t.
ascii art generated here.
