The sound started quietly. A soft tapping from somewhere deep in the house. Meyne, only eight, first noticed it one night while she sat on the floor, sorting through her toys. It was faint at first, but it was enough to make her stop and listen.
It didn't come from anywhere she could place. Not the walls. Not the windows. It was too far under the house for her to hear it clearly, but it was there. Always there.
Her mother, a tired woman who had seen too much in her life already, told her it was the pipes. That it was normal. That it would stop in time. But it didn't. As days passed, the tapping got louder, more insistent.
It came from the floor, the walls, even from the ceiling above. The house groaned with it. It followed them from room to room.
One night, Meyne's mother woke to the sound of her daughter's muffled voice. She rushed to her room, but the girl was asleep. The sound, however, had grown. It wasn't just tapping anymore. It was scraping. Like nails on wood. The air felt heavy with it.
Meyne didn't speak of the sound anymore, not after the first few nights. She knew better. When it started, she'd run to her mother, but now, she stayed quiet. She tried to drown it out with her music or the TV, but it didn't help. The house was never silent anymore.
Her mother began to notice something strange. When she was alone in the house, she could hear the sound more clearly. It was louder, sharper, and had a rhythm to it. It felt wrong, like it was waiting for something. And it always got louder when Meyne was near. It was almost like it wanted her.
One evening, while cleaning the kitchen, her mother turned the faucet on, the sound of running water masking the growing noise. But when she turned it off, the house felt wrong. The tapping was louder now, like it was pounding against the walls, or inside her head. She shook her head, trying to shake it out, but the noise wouldn't stop.
"Meyne," she called out. No answer. She walked to the living room. The girl was nowhere to be seen. The house felt empty.
"Meyne?"
The tapping grew louder.
She rushed through the house, frantic now. She called again and again, her heart racing. When she reached the stairs, she stopped. The tapping was almost deafening now. The scraping, the thudding—it was inside her head.
"Meyne!" she shouted. But the house was silent. The noise had stopped. She stood there, shaking, before slowly ascending the stairs.
The second she reached the top, the noise started again. And this time, it wasn't coming from the walls or floor. It was coming from behind her daughter's door.
With a trembling hand, she turned the knob.
The room was empty.
A chill ran down her spine. The air was cold, so cold that her breath clouded in front of her. She stepped inside, heart pounding. The tapping had stopped, but the silence was worse. The room felt as if it had been emptied, hollowed out. Meyne was nowhere.
Panic set in. She spun, eyes searching the room. But there was no sign of the girl. The house felt hollow, too—empty and wrong. It was then, standing there in the dark, that her mother heard it again, louder than before. It wasn't from the walls, the ceiling, or the floor. It was inside her own head now.
Scrape. Tap. Scrape. Tap.
The noise, so sharp and sickening, scraped against her mind like nails on metal. She staggered back. It was too close. Too loud. She had to get out.
She stumbled down the stairs, the sound following her, deafening. But it wasn't just the noise. The house felt different now. Like it was closing in on her, tightening around her throat. The silence between the sounds felt wrong, empty, like a trap. Her footsteps echoed, louder with each step. Scrape. Tap.
She ran to the front door, desperate to escape, but the door wouldn't open. She turned the handle again and again, but it was stuck. Something was wrong. Something was stopping her.
The sound was inside her now, pulsing through her head, reverberating through her bones. Her breath came faster, shallow. She screamed. Her voice, raw, cracked in the silence of the house. But no one came. There was no one. She was alone.
She turned to the stairs, the noise still ringing in her head. That tapping. That scraping. She stepped forward, toward the stairs, her hand gripping the railing, knuckles white.
The door behind her creaked.
Slowly, she turned.
And there, at the bottom of the stairs, stood Meyne. Her face pale, her hair matted, her eyes wide open and empty. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came out.
Then, just as the scraping sound reached its peak, Meyne's mouth stretched open, impossibly wide, too wide, and she spoke. But it was not Meyne's voice.
"Mama…" It was guttural, cold. "Help me."
Her mother froze. She wanted to run. But she couldn't. The tapping was louder now, shaking the floor beneath her.
The girl's body began to twist. Her limbs bent the wrong way, cracking, like something unnatural. Her skin stretched and contorted as if something was trying to escape from inside her. The noise, the scraping, grew unbearable. It filled her head, her ears, her chest.
Then, suddenly, the door behind her burst open. But it wasn't the exit. It was the inside of the house—dark and cavernous. A space that shouldn't have been there.
Before she could scream, the world went quiet.
The tapping stopped.
Everything fell away.
She was gone.
The house returned to its silence.