The Voice Behind the Wall
That night, it came again.
Just past midnight.
Emily crawled toward the sound, pressing her ear against the cold metal wall.
Silence.
Then — a whisper.
Too faint to make out, but undeniably human.
She scrambled back, fumbling for her phone flashlight, sweeping it across the tiny space. The cooler, the cot, her bags. Nothing.
The whisper stopped. But she didn’t sleep at all.
By morning, she’d decided she was done wondering.
When Marie left for lunch, Emily crept to the neighboring unit. The lock was still on. Rusted, untouched. She crouched and peered through the small crack under the door — total darkness.
Nothing.
Then—
Tap. Tap.
She stumbled back, nearly tripping over her own feet.
That night, she came armed with a screwdriver, a flashlight, and a hammer. Her plan was reckless — but she had to know.
She started unscrewing the bolts that connected her back wall to the one beside it. The metal groaned softly. Ten minutes later, she had a small hole, just big enough to peek through.
At first, she saw nothing. Just blackness.
A pile of trash bags. Something that looked like a blanket.
And then—movement.
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