Facing the Wall at 2:11

The Woman Who Stood Facing the Wall Every night at 2:11 a.m., the same sound came

from the empty room upstairs. Not footsteps. Not whispers. Just the soft scrape

of skin against paint. I moved into the house knowing its history—someone

had died there—but no one mentioned how often she came back. The first night,

I heard it and froze in bed. The second night, curiosity won. At exactly 2:11,

I climbed the stairs. The door to the upstairs room was already open. Inside,

a woman stood in the corner… facing the wall. Her hair hung wet down her back,

though the room was dry. Her feet didn’t quite touch the floor.