Samnýtt hljóð

The knocking started at 2:17 a.m. Three slow taps. Not at the door. From inside the wall. I froze, listening. Knock… knock… knock. Same spot. Right behind my bed. I told myself it was pipes, an old house, nothing else. Then it knocked again, louder, and this time it scratched. Slow, dragging, like fingernails. I turned on my light. There was a crack in the wall—I swear it wasn’t there before. Something moved inside it. Something pale. Then a finger pushed through, bending the wrong way. More fin