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When Clara moved into the old Victorian house on Holloway Lane, the realtor warned her, "The walls are a bit… talkative." She laughed it off—old houses creak, after all.

But on her first night, she heard it.

A whisper.

Not from the wind or the pipes. A voice, soft and rasping, murmuring from inside the walls.

"Clara… we’ve been waiting."

She pressed her ear to the wallpaper—cold, damp. The voice grew clearer.

"Let us in."

Clara stumbled back, heart pounding. That’s when she noticed the stains. Dark, finger-like streaks trailing down the hallway, as if something had clawed its way out.

The next morning, she called a contractor.

"Probably just rats," he said, prying open a wall panel. His flashlight flickered over something pale and glistening.

Not rats.

Teeth.

Human teeth, embedded in the plaster, clicking softly together.

The contractor screamed as the walls breathed—a wet, shuddering gasp—before the whispering began again.

"You’re home now."

Clara ran, but the front door wouldn’t budge. Behind her, the wallpaper split open, and something thin and grinning slid out…