The Voice Beyond the Wallpaper

“What’s happened?” Mark asked. His dark eyes tightened as he came closer, looking over my shoulder at the wrecked plaster and the wide black gap between the studs.

All expression vanished from his face.

The blood seemed to leave him in a single rush. He let go of the bag, and the bucket of joint compound struck the boards with a hard, blunt bang.

“I asked you not to open that wall,” he said.

His voice barely rose above a murmur. There was no heat in it, no ordinary irritation—only a flatness that made the back of my neck prickle.

“Dave said he needed to look for rot,” I managed. My arm stayed pressed over my middle, keeping the metal brace hidden beneath my sweatshirt. “He tapped the plaster with his crowbar, and it fell apart. There’s an empty space behind it, Mark.”

He gave me no answer. Instead, he passed me and entered the bedroom, attention fixed on the torn opening. He stopped in front of it, shoulders lifting with each breath.

“Where’s Dave?” he asked without taking his eyes from the gap.

“He went home. He said he couldn’t repair it.”

Mark turned his head slowly. “Did he put his hands in there?” His gaze settled on me, wide and stripped of warmth. For a moment, I couldn’t recognize the man looking back. “Did he bring anything out of the wall?”

“No,” I said, and the lie seemed to leave a bitter film in my mouth. “He only checked with a flashlight. He said it was some kind of service space and then he left.”

Mark held my gaze. The seconds dragged by, and I worked to keep my breathing even. Through the sweatshirt, the brace’s cold edge pressed into my skin.

Then, without warning, his mouth pulled into a smile that looked painful to wear.

“Well,” he said, pitching his voice higher, as if we were discussing nothing more serious than a loose shelf. “It’s lucky I brought the repair stuff. I can cover this now. Go downstairs and stay with Lily. You don’t need to inhale all this dust.”

“Mark, don’t.” I moved closer. “Why is there a room behind the wall? Why did you get so frightened when Lily heard someone knocking? Tell me what’s happening.”

“It’s an old house, Sarah!” His smile disappeared, and his voice cracked into anger. He stepped toward me, suddenly filling the small room. “I’m trying to keep my family away from a damp, crumbling wall, and you’re making this harder. Go downstairs. Now.”

He turned away, lifted the bucket, and crouched in front of the opening.

I withdrew from the bedroom. By the time I reached the stairs, I was moving almost at a run, gripping the banister until my fingers hurt.

Lily sat on the living-room rug with her knees tucked close, her blue eyes fixed on me. The television played with the sound off.

“Mommy?” she whispered. “Is Daddy mad at the wall again?”

“No, sweetheart,” I said, putting a smile on my face. I knelt and wrapped her in my arms. Her hair smelled of strawberry shampoo and sleep. I held her tightly, aware of the cold, rusted thing in my pocket, so close to her. “He’s just repairing it. It’s all right.”

I had to find out whether I was imagining things. I needed something I could trust.

“Stay here, Lily. Keep watching your show. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I got up and hurried into the kitchen, closing the door behind me. Then I took the heavy shoe from my pocket and placed it on the island. Under the bright lights, its ruined leather looked worse, peeling in brittle brown flakes. Rust had sealed its thick metal joints.

I took out my phone and called Helen, my mother-in-law.

Helen and I had never been close, though we had always managed to be civil. Since my wedding to Mark, she usually contacted us for birthdays or holidays from her apartment in Cleveland. She had raised Mark by herself and guarded him fiercely after his father left when he was still a toddler.

The phone rang four times before she answered.

“Sarah? I didn’t expect your call. Have you all settled into the new house?” Her voice rasped softly, worn by years of smoking.

“Hi, Helen. We’re—yes, we’re still unpacking,” I said under my breath. My eyes stayed on the rusted brace. “I wanted to ask you something strange about Mark when he was a boy.”

“Oh, dear,” she said with a nervous little laugh. “What’s he done this time?”

“You once told me his leg brace had been made especially for him, didn’t you? That you had to take him somewhere to have the hinges adjusted?”

A pause opened between us. Somewhere on her end, a television murmured, then went quiet.

“Yes,” Helen replied, her words coming more slowly. “Those were awful days. Why are you asking about that now?” Her voice had changed; a guarded note had slipped into it.