In The Walls

Ascending the grand, creaky staircase, my fingers left trails in the thick layer of dust on the handrail. The blood-red message had been graffitied across the ancient portrait for three days now:

I'm in the walls.

Plasterboard was shredded to pieces; every resident on search duty, but no trace of the spectral painter. My husband, master of the house, had laid all manner of traps in an attempt to catch the fiend - to no end.

Phantom breezes; eerie wailing; spontaneous fireplace eruptions. Even the beloved pet hound hanging from the bannister. I was particularly proud of that last one.