Anxious Thoughts

Venny Soldan-Brofeldt

Artist, sculptor, and jewelry designer.

The Thing in the Walls [DRAFT]

It began with the smell. A strange thing, really—how the body notices something before the mind can name it. At first, I thought it was dust—or old wood. Or something left too long in the fridge, a forgotten apple collapsing in its skin. But no, it wasn’t that. It was sweeter, heavier, the kind of scent that lingers in the back of the throat that seeps into the seams of things. And once I noticed it, it was everywhere. Clinging to the curtains, the floorboards, the very air.

Still, I told myself it was nothing.

But then came the sound.

There was a shift, a murmur, something settling behind the walls. At night, it was louder. It was a slow scrape, like fingernails against wood, like something tracing its way out.

And it is ridiculous because there is nothing inside the walls. No rats, no birds, nothing but the house’s old bones.

Yet-

There is a moment, a peculiar moment, when I am alone—when the house is utterly still, and I feel it, the way one feels an old bruise, the way one remembers a name long after forgetting. A presence. Not quite a whisper, not quite a breath, but something. The weight of something unseen.

And the mind, traitorous thing that it is, begins to search. What was it? What could it be?

Love, perhaps.

Love, not as in the books, not the golden, sunlit kind, but the other type that lingers too long, turns in on itself, curls and withers and waits.

Because, yes, I remember now.

Once, there was something small, something trembling, something warm that fit inside my hands. I cradled it, fed it, and watched it grow. It had a shape once. It had softness once. But then it changed.

As all things do.

Somewhere along the way, it became hungry.

And when I looked at it—honestly looked at it—I saw that it had my face. My hands. My voice. And oh, how it smiled.

So I stuffed it in the walls.

I built them thick, pressed the boards tight, sealed every crack, whisper, and trace of it, and told myself, “This is better, safer, and quieter.”

And for a time, it was.

But the thing about walls is that they do not keep secrets. Not really. They only hold them for a while.

Because now, the wallpaper is shifting. The air is thick, humming. The smell has settled into my skin.

And some nights, I press my palm to the wall to feel.

Knock, knock.

A single knock comes back.

Patient. Gentle. Almost tender.

And I wonder—did I trap it in here with me?

Or was I the one inside all along?

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