house smells of old dust and stale ash. I’ve been cleaning the apartment I inherited from my grandfather for two days now, trying to convince myself that the stories the family told about this place were just the ramblings of a senile old man.
I’m in the upstairs hallway, painting a wall white to cover the wallpaper that’s falling apart.
The roller moves up and down with a damp, steady sound. Suddenly, the fresh paint begins to slide downward—not because of gravity, but in thin, dark streams, tracing outlines on the plaster. I dropped the roller. The white paint takes on a dense, reddish hue, revealing lines of text written on the wall from the inside, as if someone were scratching the surface from the hidden side of the wall.
I hold the flashlight with a trembling hand and shine the light closer to read. The handwriting is clumsy, hurried, and reads: “Don’t keep painting. We’ve been trying to get out for hours, and the paint is suffocating us.
