Chapter 313

The house had stood for decades in the middle of the barren desert, a weathered relic that the locals spoke of with hushed voices. Rashid had heard the stories for years, whispered by the elders, passed from generation to generation. It was said that strange things happened at night—things that should not be.

That the walls of the house were home to something that was neither living nor dead, creatures that waited in the shadows, lurking within the very stone. Rashid, however, had never put stock in superstition. He had inherited the house from his father, and despite the rumors, he saw only the decaying structure in front of him. It was just an old house. What harm could it do?

At first, the house seemed like any other—dusty, abandoned, and steeped in neglect. Rashid would spend his days cleaning, repairing what he could, and wondering why his father had left him this place. It wasn't much, just a small structure with cracked walls and a roof that seemed to sag in places. But it was his now, and he would make the best of it. His nights, however, were different.

The first sign of something wrong came on the third night. Rashid was in bed, struggling to sleep in the oppressive heat, when he heard it. A faint sound, a soft tapping. He tried to ignore it, thinking it was just the old house settling. The heat made everything feel warped, his senses dull and confused. But then it came again—a faint scraping noise, like claws dragging across the stone.

Rashid sat up, wiping sweat from his brow, his heart pounding in his chest. The sound was coming from the walls. It was distant at first, but growing louder with each passing minute. His mind raced.

What could it be? Rats, maybe, or some other animal? He got out of bed, trying to steady his breath, and grabbed the flashlight from his dresser. He stepped into the hallway, the beam of light flickering as it swept across the walls.

Nothing.

But the sound, the scraping, continued.

Rashid walked to the living room, his eyes scanning every corner of the house, every crevice in the walls. He stepped closer to the far wall, where the noise seemed to be the loudest. He placed his hand against the cold surface, pressing his ear to the stone. The noise was unmistakable now. It was there, inside, moving just beneath the surface.

His breath caught in his throat as he pulled away. What was it? The thought of rats, of creatures scurrying through the walls, filled him with a sudden unease. He turned, heading back to his bedroom, but the noise followed. It was as if whatever was in the walls was moving with him.

Sleep didn't come that night. The sounds persisted, scratching, scraping, gnawing at the stone, growing louder and more frantic as the night wore on. Rashid lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing.

He knew what the locals had said—the stories about creatures that lived in the walls, that came out at night to feed. But that was just superstition, wasn't it? He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. He was being irrational. There was no such thing as monsters in the walls.

The next day, he tried to ignore it. He spent hours cleaning the house, trying to fix the holes in the roof, anything to take his mind off the noise. But the second night, it returned.

This time, the sound wasn't faint. It was deafening. The scratching and scraping, the rustling of something crawling through the walls, growing louder by the minute. Rashid felt a cold sweat break out on his skin as he sat up in bed. He grabbed the flashlight again, his hands shaking. He couldn't ignore it any longer. He had to see what it was.

With the flashlight in hand, he stepped into the hallway once more, the beam of light sweeping over the walls. The house was silent, too silent, the air thick with tension. The sound, though, was coming from the far side of the house, where the old kitchen stood.

Rashid moved cautiously, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he made his way to the room. The scratching was louder now, and there was a wet, gurgling sound mixed in, as if something was trying to force its way through the stone.

Rashid's heartbeat quickened as he reached the kitchen. The wall where the sound seemed to originate was intact, no visible cracks or holes. But as his flashlight danced over the stone, he saw something that made his blood run cold. There, at the base of the wall, was a small crack. It was almost imperceptible, barely visible to the naked eye, but it was there.

His fingers trembled as he reached out, touching the crack. It was cold, unnaturally cold, and wet. The noise stopped. For a moment, there was only silence, a thick, suffocating silence. Then, without warning, the wall cracked open.

From the darkness within, something long, thin, and pale emerged. It had no face—only a hollow, gaping mouth that seemed to stretch impossibly wide. Its body was sinewy, its limbs too long, too thin, and its skin was stretched tight over bone. It was as if it had been waiting, waiting for him to open the door.

It stepped out of the wall, its form shifting and moving unnaturally, like it didn't belong in the same space as him.

Rashid froze, unable to scream, unable to move. He watched in horror as more of them emerged—dozens, perhaps hundreds—crawling from the cracks in the walls, emerging from the very stone itself.

Their eyes were empty, hollow, and they moved as one, crawling toward him with a singular, terrifying purpose. They were the things from the stories, the creatures that lived in the walls, and they were coming for him.

Panic surged through Rashid, and he turned to run, but the creatures were faster. They were everywhere now, crawling over the floor, swarming toward him. One of them reached out, its clawed hand closing around his ankle, dragging him to the ground. The others were on him in an instant, tearing at his flesh with their claws, their teeth sinking into his skin.

Rashid fought back, desperate, but there were too many. Their mouths opened wide, gnawing at his arms, his chest, their hunger insatiable. He screamed, but the sound was drowned by their gnashing teeth, the wet, horrible sounds of tearing flesh.

His vision blurred, his strength fading with each passing second, and he felt his body growing weaker. The pain was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the terror that filled his heart as the creatures tore him apart.

He could feel his blood spilling out of him, hot and thick, as the creatures fed. Each bite was a shock to his body, and he could no longer hold on. His mind began to fade, slipping into darkness. But before he lost consciousness, there was one last thought in his mind.

Had his father known?

Had his father heard the same scratching, the same sounds in the walls, and had it been the same creatures that took him? He felt a deep, gnawing sadness—was his father's fate the same as his own? Or had something worse happened to him, something he had never spoken about? Maybe Rashid was just another part of the house's dark history, another victim of the thing that lived within its walls.

The creatures didn't stop. They didn't care. They only fed.

The sun rose the next morning, but there was no sign of Rashid. His body was gone, as if it had never been. The house stood in silence, the same as it always had. The walls were intact, the cracks hidden once again. There was no trace of what had happened. But inside, somewhere deep within the stone, something waited. It always waited.

The house would claim another soul. And another. And another.

It always did.