Brinn Gallup

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I am what you might call a squatter. I called an empty, forgotten house mine until a
young couple moved in. Though they were strangers, I did not mind that they stayed. Both were
unaware of my presence, and I preferred to stay tucked away in the houses’ walls even before
they arrived. I would watch them through cracks like reality television. I saw birthdays, holidays,
and regular old Tuesdays. I saw and felt the good and bad of their everyday lives. They never
saw me.
Phone conversations are not usually fun to listen in on, I dislike hearing only one side of
the conversation. I happened to overhear when the couple announced their pregnancy, and this
was exciting to me! More people to fill my once lonely house. I waited with them, watched the
nursery be painted yellow and filled with things all the baby books say to buy. One July
afternoon, I finally saw them bring her home.
I was not sure what to think of the tiny newborn. Her eyes rarely opened, her noises were
so quiet, it was as if no new person had entered my house at all. The parents, of course, felt the
opposite. Anxious and inexperienced, they spent every waking moment they could with their
attentions on this baby. I decided, in my head, that I would watch her while the couple was
asleep. They would never know my intentions, but I hoped in some way they might sense that
someone was looking out for them.
So, I watched. I saw her begin to sit up on her own. She liked to look around the room
with her huge eyes, babbling at nothing in particular. Sometimes, her eyes would float by the
cracks that I peeked through. It was silly to think she saw me; I knew she had not. But little girls
are seldom so comfortable when their mothers leave the room. I suspected she might feel my

presence as the months went by. She would crawl to the walls and try to stand up against them.
The sound of tiny hands running over the cracks was a new feeling of fear for me.
I hope if she does know I exist, that we are friends in her mind. She doesn’t try speaking
to me, but some nights she lies staring at the cracks. I decide to stop watching over her once it
becomes too much for me. Without me she is a restless toddler, with nightmares that often wake
her. It felt good to be needed, but terrifying to be noticed, even so subtly. I want to stop going to
the cracks, but this family is like my family now.
As the girl becomes school-age, her behavior is stranger and stranger. She still stares
through the cracks from far away, unknowingly meeting my gaze. Or does she know? Still not a
word, but she obsessively watches the cracks of every room. Maybe she thinks there is an animal
or a ghost. Her loyalty to this cause is confusing. Why not say something to her parents? Most
little children tell their parents they have monsters under their beds, and I suppose even if she
had said this, her father would be looking in the wrong spot. But I am no monster, I am the
owner of this house.
Her parents do take notice of her staring. She is uninterested in dolls and even TV,
preferring to look unblinking at the middle of the wall. She gets little sleep, eager to watch the
cracks and just maybe catch a glimpse of what could be hidden behind them. The couple become
concerned, scheduling doctors’ visits and setting up playdates. She hides her shoes to avoid
leaving the house. I begin to feel as though my once positive influence has soured. Little girls
should like to play. For the first time, I feel trapped inside my lovely home. I avoid her room for
a long time.
This feeling is somewhat quelled as I notice her change. Though she is still very
interested in the walls, her interests finally appear. Her room is painted blue, and absolutely full

of sea life. Plush fish and sharks are everywhere. The rug, her bedsheets, and even posters have
all kinds of ocean animals on them. Each poster is hanged just so I can still survey the room. It
makes me smile when she is learning about her favorite creatures, even if it means spending time
away from home. I can feel the relief in her parents too. They try their best to nurture her interest
because it is finally something that is not the walls of her room. I do not feel nearly as noticed as
I once did.
One night, as I am not peering into the home, I have a terrible gut feeling. Something is
deeply wrong, and I must check the family. After seeing two peacefully sleeping parents, I move
to the walls of their daughter. Instead of being met with the dark room, two eyes look right back
at me from the other side of the wall. I yelp and lurch backward, my voice is strained from years
of disuse. Only quiet from the other side.
Then two quiet taps.
I am frozen to my spot, she taps again. I weigh my options. I am terrified of being
perceived by most who enter this house, especially this young girl. But it is too late. Her lifelong
suspicions have been confirmed. I exist.
I tap the wall twice back.
She does not seem scared, not like me.
“Who are you?” She whispers.
“Nobody.” I reply.
Surprisingly, she seems satisfied by this, and backs away from the wall. She moves to her
desk, grabbing a piece of paper and coming back to hold it up to me. It is a drawing of her, in her
favorite purple starfish shirt, and behind her are the cracks. She smiles brightly as she tapes the
drawing over my view.

“Goodnight.”