On a rain-slicked Saturday,

Lily and I were playing hide and seek on the wooded hillside 

when Miss Moore invited us into her clapboard house.

The aroma of freshly baked Danish pastries 

was too alluring to resist.

Her small gray house perched at the bottom

of the hill, lonely and dismal.

We sat on the carved wood loveseat

and savored the pastry’s buttery and flaky texture,

our eyes roaming around. 

Something made my heart stutter—

not the dim light, not the musty smell,

not Miss Moore’s pointed long nose or her lopsided smile,

but the wallpaper that covered every inch 

of the wall—briars woven with strings of brambles 

and spiky leaves, as if thorny snakes twisting and crawling.

A fly landed on the wall and was immediately 

wrapped in vines, sinking into the floral pattern. 

Startled by the sight, I grabbed Lily’s hand and we thrust out of the door,

dashing down the rocky road until we had to gasp for air. 

I tried to explain what I had spotted,

but Lily swore the wallpaper was only pretty pink roses.

Since that day, nobody had seen Miss Moore— 

she vanished inside her own house. 

Rumors spread that she was a witch

and one of her potions had gone wrong.

At night, people heard a whispering pitchy cry

with the scratching sound of fingernails echoing from her house.

I knew they must be from behind the wallpaper,

but nobody would believe me.