Book Synopsis
Book Tags
Donation Rankings
Comment
0 Comments
You May Also Like
墨書 Inktalez
It was during one night when I got up to use the bathroom that I first heard Emily talking in her sleep.
It was three in the morning. The whole house was as quiet as if something had been sucked out of it. The faucet hadn’t been turned off properly, and the sound of dripping water fell rhythmically into the porcelain basin. After I finished, just as I was about to return to my room, I heard soft murmurs coming from behind Emily's door.
I paused, holding my breath.
She was speaking. It wasn’t the kind of vague sleep talk; it sounded like she was having a low conversation with someone. Her tone was calm, and the words were clear, each syllable like a line she had memorized long ago.
“I understand. He sang a bit slower today... but it was still accurate... um... I can teach him again.”
I stood at the door, my chest tightening. It didn’t sound like a monologue; she seemed to be responding to someone—yet that “someone” was completely inaudible to me.
I tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. Emily had never locked her door before.
I knocked twice and lowered my voice, “Emily? Sweetheart?”
The room fell silent for three seconds.
“Good night, Daddy,” she said in a tone that was almost mechanical, as if it were a pre-prepared closing line.
Then—silence returned.
I stood outside for several minutes before finally turning back to my own room. That night, I couldn’t sleep.
In the days that followed, Emily began to develop new habits.
Every morning after she got up, she would walk to the wall on the right side of her room, crayon in hand, and mark it. At first, she drew small circles, then they turned into rows of lines. Eventually, the lines crossed and formed grids, with numbers written in the middle of each square—some odd, some even. Strangely, she never wrote the number "4."
I asked her what it meant.
She said, "They want me to keep track. That way they know the progress."
"They" appeared again. I forced myself to stay calm. "Who are they?"
She drew an oval shape in the air with her crayon. "The children who live here. They've always been here; we just never sang for them before. They’re very lonely."
I was taken aback, unsure how to respond.
"How do you know they're in the wall?"
She thought for a moment and replied, "I couldn't hear them before. But now I can hear their voices. They say it’s because we’ve sung enough."
A chill ran down my spine.
That night, I lay in bed listening to a lullaby coming from Emily's room in the distance. I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself that all of this was just anxiety from lack of sleep.
Then I heard a second voice.
It wasn’t my daughter’s voice. This voice was smaller, lighter, and… sharper. It sounded like a child mimicking her humming.
I sat up, clutching my pillow, breathing heavily.
The sound did not return. Only the faint creaking of the walls could be heard, as if the wood was bending and slowly cracking.
During the day, Emily remained that obedient, quiet little girl. When she had breakfast, she would arrange her cereal into geometric shapes, slowly swirling her spoon in circles while softly humming that strange melody. It wasn’t "You Are My Sunshine," but rather an inexplicable tune, like fragmented notes that had yet to take form. Yet she always managed to sing the same melodic points with precision, never missing a note.
I tried to record it, but every time I pressed the record button, the melody would abruptly stop. Emily would look up at me and say softly, "Don’t record it; they don’t like it."
I didn’t dare to ask further.
Sarah would occasionally come back to collect clothes. She never entered Emily’s room, her gaze avoiding what seemed like a wound that should not be touched.
"You look terrible," she said. "Jack, you need to talk to someone. If you keep this up…"
"She said there are other children in the walls," I whispered.
Sarah froze.
"She said they teach her to sing and want me to practice every day. She even drew on the wall—"
"Stop." Sarah raised her hand. "You’ve now dragged fantasies into this."
I didn’t respond. At that moment, I suddenly realized that I truly didn’t know whether it was her who was insane or if it was me.
One day, I finally couldn’t hold back any longer and entered her room while Emily was at school.
I stood in front of the wall covered in symbols for a full ten minutes. There were grids, lines, numbers, and repeated "x" marks, along with patterns that resembled musical notes and maps. I even noticed she had written a small note:
"Tonight, practice the sixty-third version."
I pressed my ear against the wall and listened intently.
After about fifty seconds, I heard a faint tapping. Two taps, a pause, then one more. It was as if some rhythmic beat was echoing from the other side of the wall.
I took a step back, my skin prickling with goosebumps.
That night, Emily asked me to sing as usual. But this time, she interrupted me suddenly during my seventh rendition.
“Dad, that note is wrong. Start again from the fifth version.”
“I... how do you remember?”
She blinked at me. “Because they keep track of it. They all listen and score every time.”
A chill ran through me.
“You don’t want to get a low score, do you? If that happens… they’ll be angry.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. I hid at the stairwell, listening to Emily’s soft humming from inside the room, and then—other voices joined in.
One, two, five, ten. Each voice sounded like that of a child—some male, some female; some raspy, others like infants—but all sang the same melody.
I couldn't help but rush into her room and push the door open.
Emily lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling with her eyes wide open. She seemed undisturbed, as if she were enjoying a chorus that belonged solely to her.
I trembled as I asked, "Emily, who are they?"
She smiled, a calm and terrifying composure.
"They are the children in the walls. They are happy now because we are almost done counting."
I wanted to say something, but she shook her head.
"Dad, it's your turn to sing. This time, start from the sixty-third time, and don't mess it up."
I couldn't continue singing. I fled the room and crashed into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa and gasping for air as if I had just been pulled from the water.
The walls felt like they were closing in on me; that melody—hummed by Emily, sung by me, echoed by those children—looped endlessly in my mind, forming a noose.
I couldn't remember when I fell asleep; I only knew my eyelids felt heavy as lead, while that damned song continued to play in my ears.
That night, I had a dream.
I stood in an endless corridor, its walls made of old wooden planks, black liquid seeping through the cracks. Every few steps, there was a door, and behind each door came a familiar melody.
Not the whole song, just a segment of the chorus playing on repeat. The rhythm was almost consistent, with only slight off-key notes, as if someone were imitating it but not perfectly.
I approached a door and pushed it open.
Inside was an empty room, its walls covered with children's drawings—dense lines and numbers, with patches of hair, nails, and dried red stains in various places. In the center stood an old phonograph, the record spinning and playing my voice. Yes, my own voice—singing "You Are My Sunshine."
But the way I sang was wrong.
I sounded like a monster, the rhythm off, the notes all askew. I wanted to turn it off, but it spun faster and faster, the sound becoming sharp and piercing, like a tape being pulled taut with a shrill laugh. I covered my ears and turned to flee, only to crash into a newly grown wall.
On that wall, pairs of eyes were staring at me. They were not human eyes; they resembled those I had seen in my daughter's doodle book—elongated, deep black, completely unblinking.
A voice came from behind me—it was Emily's voice, but much older than her real one, like an elderly person still trying to sound like a child.
"You forgot the breath point on the sixty-third time, Daddy."
Then came a gentle tapping on the wall, echoing from all sides of the dream: tap, tap, tap...
I screamed awake, drenched in cold sweat.
The room was dead silent.
Only from Emily's room came that familiar melody, as if resonating from deep within the walls; it seemed she no longer needed me to sing—it was as if she could finish it herself.
Comment 0 Comment Count