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I stand in the middle of the small room that smells of mildew and listen to the dog barking next door in long exaggerated howls.
I wonder why it cries out, its voice ricocheting off apartment roofs and car windshields, landing within the small room.
I let its lamentations enter and exit my mind as I press my feet into the dented and scuffed hardwood floors.
I stare at the yellowing wallpaper which I had carefully ripped in particular sections before the dog started wailing.
The missing patches of wallpaper seem to give way to holes, holes that retreat far into the walls, beyond the small room and the cacophony of sound that fills it.
I move away from the middle of the room, releasing my feet from the floor one at a time, keeping my eyes on the holes as I do so.
I place a hand into the largest hole and reach until my cheek is pressed to the wall, the smell of mildew becoming stronger.
Beyond the wallpaper, my hand grows cold and the hair on my arm stands on end in the darkness.
The dog stops barking and I feel something touch me, reaching what feels like fingers around my wrist.
“She’s in there. I know it.”
Lindsay Pelliccia is a fiction writer and the editor-in-chief of Contemporary Jo literary magazine.
Image credit: Hyperphagia on DeviantArt
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