Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Echoes in the Walls

On the outskirts of the small town of Hawthorne, hidden in the woods and shaded by towering, ancient trees, stood a forgotten house. It was a house no one talked about. It was the kind of place children dared each other to visit, the house that older folks would look away from when driving by, as if acknowledging its existence could stir something worse than bad luck.

Mara had always been curious. From the time she was a little girl, she had wondered about the house—why no one lived there, why it was so silent, and why the windows were always closed, even when there was no one around. The house was a relic of an era long gone, a gothic structure that seemed to fade into the dark, overgrown yard as if it had been there for centuries.

Now, at 26, Mara had returned to Hawthorne to settle into the old house she had inherited after her parents' passing. She wasn't close to her family—hadn't been for years—but when the property became hers, she felt the urge to face the strange pull of the house. It was time to confront the mystery. To see what had drawn her, even as a child.

The first few days were uneventful. The house was cold, and the air inside felt damp and musty, as if it had been sealed off from the world for years. There were no neighbors to speak of, no one to greet her or offer any help. But the house had its charm—at least that's what she told herself to feel less uneasy. The windows, covered in grime, looked out over a yard swallowed by ivy. The floors creaked beneath her every step, and the old wooden beams in the ceiling groaned in protest.

On the fifth night, the house became something else.

Mara was alone in the sitting room, trying to make sense of the old furniture and antiques she hadn't yet gotten rid of. The room was lit only by the dim glow of a single table lamp, casting long shadows against the walls. She had just finished dusting the old grandfather clock in the corner when she heard it—at first, she thought it was a trick of the wind.

A faint tapping.

She paused, listening. It came again—faint, almost rhythmic, like fingers drumming against the wall. Mara felt her pulse quicken. The sound was coming from behind the wall, deep within the old house, like a whisper just beneath the surface. Her curiosity had always led her toward danger, but now it was her instinct to flee that kicked in.

Yet, despite the fear curling in her chest, she couldn't bring herself to leave. The tapping continued, echoing in the stillness, as if beckoning her.

With her heart pounding, she followed the sound. It led her through the narrow, dark hallways of the house, past rooms she had yet to explore, until she came to a door at the end of the hallway. The door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of darkness stretching into the unknown. The air felt colder here, and as Mara approached, the tapping grew louder, sharper, like a fingernail on the wall, steady and insistent.

She pushed the door open with trembling hands. Inside was a small, empty room—no furniture, just walls and dust. But on the far side of the room, there was something strange. A portion of the wall, where the paint had peeled away, revealed a faint outline of what looked like a door. A door that didn't belong.

Before Mara could even think of approaching it, a voice echoed in her head. It was quiet at first, like a murmur from the farthest corner of her mind.

"Don't open it..."

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. It wasn't her voice, and it wasn't a sound she could hear with her ears. It was a presence, something that settled deep in her gut like a warning she couldn't ignore.

But the tapping—so steady, so persistent—still echoed in the room, and it drowned out the voice in her head. Mara's curiosity won again, as it always had. She stepped closer to the wall, placing her palm against it. The tapping stopped. The room felt even colder. She could see her breath as she exhaled, misting in the air.

With a deep breath, she pushed the wall, expecting it to creak open like a hidden compartment, but instead, the wall gave way as if it were made of paper. It slid open effortlessly, revealing a small, narrow passageway. The tapping resumed, more frantic now.

Her pulse hammered in her chest, but Mara couldn't bring herself to retreat. She stepped into the passageway.

The corridor was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through cracks in the ceiling. It was even colder here, and the silence felt oppressive, as though something was waiting just beyond her sight.

The walls in the passageway were covered in strange markings—symbols that Mara didn't recognize, but that stirred something familiar within her. The deeper she went, the more the whispers in her head grew louder, like voices trapped in the walls.

"You shouldn't have come."

"You must leave."

But it was too late. She had gone too far.

The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, narrowing until Mara was forced to crouch. As she moved forward, she felt a pull in her chest, a magnetic force that tugged her onward, like the house was alive and had decided it wasn't done with her yet. Then, finally, the passage opened up into a small room.

At the center of the room stood a pedestal, and upon the pedestal, a strange object—an old, cracked mirror. Its surface was dark, as though it had been abandoned for centuries. But as Mara stepped closer, she felt something stir in the pit of her stomach, something that told her she was about to see something that would change her forever.

The mirror's surface rippled like water. It was as if it were alive, as if it were breathing.

And then, it spoke.

"You should never have entered."

The voice was low, guttural, almost like it came from the very walls themselves. But it wasn't a warning this time—it was a statement. A fact.

Mara's reflection flickered in the mirror, distorted. Her face twisted, contorted into something dark and malevolent. Her eyes were hollow, and her lips curled into a grin that didn't belong to her.

She stumbled back, but the mirror seemed to pull her in. It wasn't just her reflection anymore. Something else—something that wasn't her—was staring back at her.

"You're just like the others," it whispered. "You'll never leave. You've already made your choice."

Mara turned to flee, but the walls shifted. The passage had disappeared. There was no escape. The mirror began to crack, slowly at first, and then all at once, the surface shattered into millions of tiny pieces, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor like the echoes of a thousand souls trapped in the house.

The tapping—so familiar, so maddening—grew louder, until it became a deafening roar.

Mara's scream was swallowed by the walls.

And from deep within the house, the tapping continued.