It was supposed to be a fresh start. New city, new apartment, new roommate. I’d been adrift for so long, bumping from one temporary situation to the next, just trying to find some solid ground. Then I found this place, and them. We clicked immediately. A shared love for bad movies, late-night talks that turned into sunrise conversations, a mutual appreciation for really terrible instant coffee. It felt like I’d finally found my person, my anchor. Someone who understood. I trusted them implicitly. More than I’d trusted anyone in years.
The apartment was old, charmingly so, with creaky floorboards and a faint, sweet smell of dust and forgotten things. My room was small but cozy, the window overlooking a quiet street. The wall separating my room from my roommate’s was thin. Sometimes I’d hear them humming, or the soft rustle of clothes. It was just background noise, part of the fabric of our shared life.
Then I saw it.It was tiny, barely a pinprick, nestled low in the wall, half-hidden by my bed frame. I almost didn’t see it. A fleck of missing paint, revealing a dark spot beneath. Just an imperfection in an old building, I thought, and tried to ignore it. But once noticed, it was impossible to un-notice. My eye kept drifting back to it. A tiny, perfect circle, no bigger than the tip of a pen.
A woman carrying a laundry basket | Source: Pexels
That’s when things started to feel… off.
I noticed the hush. Not just quiet, but an intentional, suffocating silence that would fall over their room whenever I was around. I’d be in the living room, hear faint sounds, then the moment I moved towards their door, a sudden, absolute stillness. Like someone holding their breath. I started picking up on strange smells – sometimes a sterile, metallic tang, like a hospital. Other times, something cloyingly sweet, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun.
My roommate’s moods became erratic. One minute, full of their usual charm, joking, laughing. The next, a shadow would pass over their face, their eyes distant, haunted. They’d disappear into their room for hours, sometimes days, with vague explanations about being “swamped with work” or “just needing alone time.” And the door. It was always, always locked from the inside. Even when they were in the living room, their bedroom door remained stubbornly shut.
Am I imagining things? I’d ask myself, pacing my small room. Am I being paranoid? The stress was getting to me. I felt a growing sense of unease, a prickling sensation on my skin, like I was being watched even when I was alone. My once-safe space started to feel… observed.
A sad elderly woman sitting in bed | Source: Pexels
The pinprick in the wall became a magnet for my gaze. I’d lie in bed, staring at it, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. One night, the silence from their room was heavier than usual, almost oppressive. I could hear my own breathing, loud in the stillness. A terrifying curiosity, a primal need to know, gnawed at me.
Slowly, carefully, I slid off my bed. The floorboards creaked underfoot, and I froze, listening. Nothing. Just the hum of the fridge from the kitchen. My hands were shaking as I knelt beside the wall. I pressed my eye to the tiny hole.
At first, all I saw was darkness. It was late, their lights were off. I almost pulled back, disappointed, ashamed of my own behavior. Then, my eyes adjusted. A sliver of moonlight pierced through their window, casting pale shadows across their room.
I saw blankets. Piles of them, not neatly folded, but heaped on the floor in a corner, forming a kind of nest. And in the center of that nest, a shape.
A small, still shape.
A sad elderly woman lying awake in bed | Source: Pexels
My breath hitched. My blood ran cold. What was that? My mind screamed, trying to rationalize it. A pile of laundry? A strange sculpture? But the way the blankets were arranged, the slight indentation… it was too deliberate. Too human-shaped.
I pulled back, gasping softly, pressing a hand over my mouth to stifle any sound. My entire body trembled. I scrambled back onto my bed, pulling the covers tight around me, as if they could shield me from what I’d seen. Sleep was impossible. Every shadow danced with menace. Every creak of the building sounded like a footstep.
The next few days were a blur of forced normalcy. I laughed a little too loud, asked a little too many questions about their day, all while my stomach churned with a terrible dread. I avoided their eyes, terrified they would see the frantic questions swirling in mine.
The hole was no longer just a hole. It was a wound in the fabric of my reality.
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I looked again. I had to. The need to understand overshadowed any sense of guilt or privacy. This time, I waited until I heard them enter their room, heard the click of their lock. Then, I crept to the wall.
Their lamp was on, a soft, warm glow. My roommate was sitting on the floor beside the blanket nest. Their back was to me. They were hunched over, their shoulders shaking with a silent sob. Gently, so gently, they reached out and stroked something under the blankets.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I pressed my eye closer, willing the darkness to recede, praying for a clearer view. The blankets shifted slightly. I saw a small hand emerge, impossibly pale, thin fingers twitching.
It was a child.
My mind reeled. A child? Hidden in their room? What kind of monster would keep a child hidden like this? My roommate, who I trusted, who I thought was my friend, was a kidnapper? A prison guard? The thought made me feel physically ill.
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I watched, horrified, as my roommate leaned down, whispering to the child. Their voice was choked with emotion, but I couldn’t make out the words. They offered a spoonful of something, a clear liquid, which the child seemed to weakly accept. The roommate’s tenderness was heartbreaking, confusing. This wasn’t the behavior of a captor. This was… love. Or a desperate, aching form of care.
Days turned into a week. My observations became more frequent, more desperate. I saw the child move, sometimes. A small cough. A restless turn. They were clearly unwell. Frail. My roommate would sometimes hold them, just hold them, for hours, rocking gently, tears streaming silently down their face. The sterile smell became stronger, mixed with the sickly sweetness I now recognized as something organic, decaying.
My decision solidified. I had to do something. Call the authorities. Demand answers. This child was suffering. My roommate, whatever their intentions, was committing a terrible act. I just needed one more look. One more detail, to confirm everything, to give me the courage.
A sad senior lady | Source: Pexels
It was late, the apartment silent. I heard the soft click of their door opening, then closing. My roommate must have gone to the bathroom. This was my chance. I rushed to the wall, my hand trembling as I pressed my eye to the hole.
Their room was bathed in the soft glow of a nightlight. The child was uncovered this time, lying still in the blanket nest. My roommate must have pulled the blankets back for a moment before stepping out.
My breath hitched.
I saw the small face. The pale skin, drawn and delicate. The wisps of light brown hair. The tiny, slightly crooked nose. The familiar birthmark, just under their left eye, a faint, almost invisible tracing that I had memorized from a lifetime of fleeting glances.
NO. NO. THIS ISN’T POSSIBLE.
My world shattered into a million sharp, piercing pieces. The air left my lungs in a silent scream. My entire body went numb, then erupted in a searing pain.
It wasn’t just a child.
A close-up shot of a woman holding a glass of wine | Source: Pexels
It was my sister.
The one who died in the fire all those years ago. The one whose tiny coffin we buried. The one whose picture still sat on my parents’ mantle, forever six years old.
IT WAS HER.
She wasn’t dead. She was here. Hidden. Sick. And my roommate… my roommate… had been keeping her. This wasn’t a stranger. This was my family. Or someone who knew. Someone who had kept this unbearable, heartbreaking truth from me for YEARS.
I stumbled back, hitting the wall, the sound echoing impossibly loud in the terrifying silence. My knees buckled. My mind screamed, replaying every whispered conversation, every strange smell, every haunted look from my roommate. The sterile smell. The sweet, cloying one. The secret, silent vigil. It all crashed down on me, making horrifying sense.
A woman with a determined look | Source: Pexels
MY SISTER IS ALIVE. AND SHE’S SUFFERING. AND I HAVE BEEN LIVING WITH THE PERSON WHO HAS BEEN HIDING HER FROM ME ALL THIS TIME.
I stared at the hole in the wall, no longer a pinprick, but a gaping void that had swallowed my entire life, chewed it up, and spit out this horrifying, impossible truth. Every memory, every belief, every moment of grief for my lost sister… a lie. All of it a lie.
And now, through this tiny, terrible window, I could see her. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that my life would never, ever be the same.
