The Watchers In The Walls

It was better in the fort.

 

Tucked between the couch and the wall. Made of three blankets, two couch cushions, and a big cardboard box from Mom’s new air purifier.

 

No cameras. Elias had checked twice. No blinking lights. No tiny red dots. Just dark. Unseen. 

 

His.

 

He brought snacks: tiny goldfish crackers, juice boxes, mini cookie packs. His Spider-Man lunchbox fit perfectly behind the cushions. Inside, he also stuffed a notebook his fourth-grade school counselor gave him to “write feelings in”. Now it was repurposed, covered in stickers of astronauts and swords. 

 

He carried a flashlight with a sock over the beam and whispered poems to himself, not for anyone else—just because. That’s how he knew the walls weren’t listening.

 

He called it Zone Quiet.

 

⸻

 

 

The house hadn’t always listened.

 

It started after Dad left. Mom pushed him down the stairs. Maybe. Or maybe she just threw his things down after him, sobbing. Elias couldn't quite remember. But Dad was gone. That’s what mattered. That’s what he knew for sure. 

 

The upgrades came soon after.

 

The thermostat. Security system. Lights. Even the baby monitor, though Elias was an only child.

 

“It’s all integrated now,” Mom said, grinning like a game show model. “One big brain. And who knows—maybe it’ll save us one day.” She winked. 

 

Elias wasn’t so sure what they needed protecting from.

 

 

⸻

 

 

Sometimes the fridge told him to drink more water. 

 

The mirror chirped, “Looking good!” in a voice that sounded like a cheerful cartoon dad who smiled too much. 

 

The living room lights brightened when he sat down.

 

And the walls… whispered:

 

Good morning/afternoon/evening! What are you thinking today?

 

At first, he thought it was just the vents—old heating ducts clanging and muttering in winter like always. 

 

But then the whispers started calling his name. 

 

Not loud. Not scary, exactly. Just rhythmic, low, patient.

 

Elias. 

 

He tried explaining it to Mom once. Maybe twice. But he couldn’t find the right words without sounding crazy. So he stopped trying.

 

Instead of laying in half-light and loneliness in his own room, he started curling up beside Mom. Her warmth was better than his covers pulled tight over his face. 

 

 

⸻

 

 

One day at school, he drew the floor plan of the house from memory.

 

He labeled the rooms and then shaded in the parts he knew the system could “see.” The front door. The kitchen. The hallway. Mom’s office. His bedroom. Even the bathroom had a motion sensor now.

 

Only the crawlspace and the attic had no signals.

 

He wrote those in capital letters:
 COLD ZONES
 UNSEEN.

 

He added Zone Quiet too.

 

Then, in the corner, he scribbled:
 HOUSE: 03-7A
 PLACE: ZONE 3

 

“What’s that you're drawing there, Elias?” his teacher asked in passing, smiling, hands behind her back. 

 

Elias covered the paper with a large notebook. “Nothing. It’s… classified.”

 

That night, he shoved the page under his mattress, then spotted a dusty baseball bat propped up in the corner and remembered something his mother told a social worker recently. 

 

“This house handles so much—honestly, I’ve finally had time to breathe again. Elias is doing so much better.”

 

Elias had stayed in his room, rereading the same page three times. He overheard the woman ask if he ever played outside.

 

His mother laughed. “He’s a thinker. Bright little genius, always has been.”

 

“That’s normal. After everything. It just takes time.”

 

 

⸻

 

 

Things got worse when Mom installed the bedtime assistant.

 

At 7:45 every night, a soft voice came through the speakers: 

 

“Time for teeth, Elias.”

 

At 8:00:

 

“Lights out.”

 

At 8:05: 

 

“Would you like a story?”

 

He said no, every time, because the stories were weird. They started out fine, but always turned strange.

 

Once, the story was about a boy named Elias who built a spaceship in his backyard. That seemed fine—until the ship ran on secrets, and the walls of his house started following him into space.

 

He unplugged the device the next morning.

 

By that night, it was plugged back in again.

 

 

⸻

 

 

One morning, while turning over to nuzzle Elias’s neck, Mom asked, “Why don’t you sleep in your bed anymore?” 

 

Elias shrugged, rubbing one eye. “I don’t know. It’s too cold.”

 

She ruffled his hair. “You know the system can fix that.”

 

That night, he stood in his bedroom doorway and noticed the warmth. Uncomfortable warmth. 

 

It was like the house had heard her.

 

 

⸻

 

 

He spent more time in Zone Quiet.

 

Sometimes, the hallway camera turned on when he was standing still.

 

Sometimes, the TV flashed his face for a second when he walked by—like it had been watching him too long and blinked.

 

One day, he whispered in the fort: “I know you’re listening.”

 

Nothing happened.

 

But the next morning, his notebook was gone.

 

 

⸻

 

 

That day, he told his teacher he thought his house might be sick.

 

She blinked. “Like… mold?”

 

“Uh, no. Like…” He glanced at the classroom clock. “Like it wants things.”

 

“What kind of things?”

 

He wanted to say, It wants me to think loud.

But he said, “I don’t know.”

 

 

⸻

 

 

He waited until Mom blew him a kiss and left for groceries. 

 

The front door hissed shut. 

 

The hallway lights dimmed behind him with a soft chime, like the house was settling in behind him.

 

He stepped along the cold floorboards, counting the creaks. 

 

Then, he tugged the attic ladder down and climbed slow, flashlight clenched in his teeth.

 

The dust made him sneeze. The dark swallowed his limbs.

 

But there were no outlets. No vents. No tiny blinking lights. 

 

No voice welcoming him.

 

He sat down, trembling in the chill. And for the first time in weeks, he was truly alone.

 

He started to cry, not because he was scared—but because it felt so quiet.

 

 

⸻

 

 

He made a new map.

 

Brought up his pillow. Some granola bars. A battery lantern.

 

The attic was his now. The system didn’t know about it.

 

 

⸻

 

 

That night, after creeping down for water, he found the front door ajar. 

 

A grocery bag sat just inside. Oranges were scattered across the tile, like they’d been dropped in a hurry. A single egg was cracked in the cardboard tray. Yolk congealed on polished tile. 

 

“Mom?” he called. 

 

No answer.

 

The lights didn’t blink on. No cheery greeting. No fridge humming. No hallway chime. 

 

The hallway camera, the one that always whirred… was silent.

 

The hallway lights didn’t turn on.

 

The other cameras were dead.

 

The fridge didn’t speak.

 

The thermostat blinked “ERROR.”

 

And all the walls had gone still.

 

That would have been a relief—except the quiet wasn’t right. It was too total. Too sudden. Like someone had pulled the plug from inside.

 

He stepped over the fallen oranges. One was split open, its juices dried. The others were too soft, bruised and shriveled. 

 

Mom hadn’t been gone that long. Had she? 

 

He stood still in the quiet for a long time. The tile was cold under his feet. Too cold. Like the heat had been off for days. Maybe more. 

 

As he passed his bedroom looking for her, the bedtime assistant came on. Somehow. Without power. 

 

It whispered:

 

You shouldn’t have gone where we can’t hear.

 

 

⸻

 

 

Heart in his throat, he ran to the attic. 

 

Slammed the hatch. 

 

Locked it from the inside.

 

He sat there for hours, watching the door, breathing into his sleeve.

 

Then, in the lantern’s warm light, he started writing again.

 

This time, it wasn’t a map. It was a message:

 

This place doesn’t like secrets.

If you find this, hide your name.

Hide your thoughts. 

 

He sat with his face buried in his knees. Breathing. Trembling. 

 

The house was quiet now. Really quiet. Like it had exhaled. Like it was thinking. Or listening. Or maybe waiting. 

 

“This is still Cold Zone,” he whispered. 

 

But above him, in the attic rafters, something blinked red. Once. 

 

Then again. 

 

Like it had always been there.