When I was ten years old my family moved into a new home. You see, my father was a safety consultant for chemical manufacturers and helped make their facilities more efficient and less hazardous. His job took him all over the country, and we went with him. Consequently, we often found ourselves living in the empty rural areas where these factories were often built.

The house we had moved into wasn’t much different from the ones I was used to. It was old, rickety, and, as always, cheap. My room was a cramped and stuffy corner of the home which always seemed either too hot or too cold. Most notably, the walls were made of paneled wood. You know what I mean – the kind with dark and light swirls and obscure little markings.

During my first night there, I noticed that the wood panel directly next to my bed had an interesting pattern. There were two circles with a third, larger one situated beneath them. I couldn’t help but think that it looked like two eyes and a gaping mouth, a face pressed into the very wood.

It’s important to note that I was a lonely child. No other kids lived nearby, my father was often busy with work, and I was homeschooled by my mother. She had previously been a teacher and taught me well. However, when she wasn’t lecturing it seemed like she was too busy for me. My father would return home late at night, eat, and go directly to bed. As a result, I was lonelier than ever before in that dark home of ours.

To cope, I began talking to the face in my wall. I knew that children often had imaginary friends, and I figured it was fitting that I would have one too. I spoke to it every night, much like a diary, telling it about my day and my feelings. It was cathartic. I poured all of my emotions into that eerie little pattern, letting out all of my frustrations and worries.

As time went on, something strange occurred. The face in the wall seemed to become more detailed and realistic. The eyes gained a sort of depth and I couldn’t help but feel its gaping mouth was slowly being stretched into a grimace. At first, I dismissed it, but every day it appeared more detailed, more humanesque.

That was when the breathing started. I went to bed one night, and in the darkness of my room, I heard the sound of labored breathing. I jumped to my feet and turned the light on only to find my room as it had been before – empty. And yet, when I turned the lights back off and laid down, I heard it again. I could have sworn it was coming from that face beside my bed.

I went to my parents and told them about it, but they dismissed the sound as creaky pipes. We lived in an old house after all, and that’s what old houses do. They make noise. Nonetheless, I became certain that the face breathed as it watched me sleep. I stayed up most of that night, but eventually drifted off in the early morning.

Yet that breathing continued night after night. It became less labored and soon sounded like the easy breath of someone content to sit and watch. It unnerved me, but I grew to ignore it. However, I decided to stop talking to the face in the wall. I felt as if it actually listened to me when I did so. The thought sent chills down my spine.

But then came the worst night of them all. I was drifting off to sleep when I noticed that the breathing had stopped. I had become so accustomed to it that the silence in my room was deafening. Then came the voice.

“Father,” I heard from beside my bed.

I jerked up and stared at the spot on the wall. It was too dark to make anything out, but I knew the face was there watching.

“Why won’t you speak to me anymore?”

I sat there frozen in terror. I tried to respond but only managed a strange squawk, something between a question and a terrified shout.

“You have made me real in your mind and thus I was born,” the face said, its voice raspy. “And yet you do not love me. All this time I have listened to your troubles, but now you look upon me with fear.”

At that moment I found the strength to dart from my room. I went to my parents, who were fast asleep in their beds. I told them about what had happened, but, in a half-awake state, they dismissed it as a nightmare and told me to go back to sleep. I stayed for a moment longer, insisting that I had seen something. My father fixed me with an angry stare and told me to go back to bed in a way that left no room for negotiation.

I left but refused to return to my room. Instead, I elected to sleep on the couch. I could still hear it as I laid there. The thing called for me, begging for my attention. Eventually, it resorted to cursing me, telling me that it hated me and that I should die. I stayed up all night shaking with fear.

The next day I found the courage to cover it with a poster in the brightness of the midday sun. It seemed that the face was only active at night. I had never heard it breathing during the day, and in the sunlight, it seemed much less real. However, it still spoke night after night. Rather than bemoaning my lack of attention, it went straight to insulting me and saying how much it hated me. I slept in fear on the couch every night.

Fortunately, my father’s work there was nearly done, and we moved out shortly after. That face weighed heavily on my mind for months after that, but slowly I forgot about it. Eventually, it seemed like nothing more than a distant dream, and I questioned whether it had ever really happened.

However, fifteen years later something strange has begun to occur. It started when I was sitting in my office at the accounting firm. I glanced down at the wooden floors only to see a face staring up at me. It was nearly identical to the one that had been in that house all those years ago. It had the same strange detail, the same wide grimace, and a new hatred burned behind its eyes.

I nearly fell out of my seat upon seeing it. However, I convinced myself it was merely a coincidence and went about my day. I tried to ignore it but couldn’t stand the thought of that thing looking up at me, so I laid a paper on the ground to cover it.

My walk home in the evening took me through the park. That’s when I saw the face again, staring out at me from the bark of a tree. There was still anger in its eyes. I sped up my pace only to see it again and again, gazing at me from every tree I passed. I turned my attention to the sidewalk and focused on my stride.

As soon as I got home, I felt a jolt of terror run down my spine. I realized that my floors were made of wood with the same swirling patterns as my bedroom wall all those years ago. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I went directly to my computer. I managed to find some records of that old house. It had been demolished only a few days prior in order to build a new mall.

Now I can’t stop seeing that face. It follows me wherever I go, day and night. It calls to me with vile rage and utter hatred, begging me to kill myself for all the wrong I’ve done it. That thing is now free of the structure which bound it, free to haunt me for the rest of my life.