Jerry wasn't one for superstitions. The kind of man who'd laugh at the thought of ghosts and the paranormal. He scoffed at people who spent too much time on such nonsense. So when he moved into the small house at the edge of town, he told himself the creaks and groans of the old building were just part of its age.
The first night wasn't so bad. He lay in bed, the stillness surrounding him like a dense fog. But then it happened. A soft scrape. At first, Jerry thought it was the house settling, the wind tapping against the walls. But then he heard it again. A tapping. Then a scratching, like fingernails on wood.
He turned on the lamp by his bed, convinced it was just the house, just his mind playing tricks. But then, from the corner of the room, a pale finger emerged from the wall, its tip slowly, deliberately curling. Jerry froze.
The hand was long and thin. Not natural.
His heart thumped in his chest. He blinked, thinking he was seeing things. When he opened his eyes again, the finger was gone.
The next night, Jerry stayed up late, trying to catch the thing. But nothing happened. No fingers, no scratching. He told himself it had been some weird dream. He'd been under stress lately—maybe that was it.
The nights that followed were quiet. But then, it started again. Fingers.
They didn't come from the same spot. Sometimes they'd emerge from the floor, reaching through the cracks in the hardwood, wriggling like worms. Sometimes from the ceiling, thin as bone, just barely visible as they extended into the dim light. The fingers grew longer each night, twisting and stretching as though they were trying to reach him.
The house felt wrong. Jerry couldn't explain it. The air in the rooms seemed thinner, and the silence was never truly quiet. There was something else—something just beneath the surface. He would hear things moving in the walls, the scraping of something long and sharp dragging across wood.
One night, Jerry couldn't stand it any longer. He grabbed a hammer and a flashlight, determined to find the source of the fingers. He swung the hammer at the walls, slamming it hard against the wood, trying to break through. The walls cracked and splintered, but nothing came out.
Then, as if it was mocking him, a single finger reached through the ceiling above him.
He dropped the hammer.
It wasn't a human finger. It was pale, sickly, with sharp, jagged nails that scraped against the surface of the wall. The nails dug deep, tearing at the plaster, as though whatever it was wanted out. Jerry's hands trembled as he backed away.
But it didn't stop. They kept coming. Every night, more fingers appeared, some from the walls, others from the floor, some from the ceiling, stretching farther into his room. He couldn't escape it.
Jerry tried to leave, but the house wouldn't let him. Every time he walked out the door, his legs would freeze, like the ground itself held him in place. The door would slam shut, and the fingers would start again.
It didn't matter where he went. His skin began to crawl, itching under the pressure of the invisible hands. His mind unraveled, each night growing worse than the last. The fingers weren't just coming from the walls anymore. They were everywhere. They pressed against his skin, dragging their sharp nails across his body. The more he tried to get away, the more fingers appeared, more than he could count. They wriggled in and out of the floors, his clothes, his mouth.
By the time the last night came, Jerry wasn't the same. His eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling with exhaustion. The fingers were everywhere. They curled around his throat, digging into his skin. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't scream. The walls seemed to close in on him, and he could feel them—hundreds of cold fingers pressing against him, twisting into his flesh.
And then, with a sickening crack, his body disappeared.
The house stood empty once again.
No more fingers. No more sound.
But sometimes, if you stand in the room long enough, you might hear a faint scrape from the walls. Just a reminder that something still waits.