The Weekend Thriller Story 2 — The Echo in the Walls | Scariest Story Ever

The Weekend Thriller Story 2 ……… The Echo in the Walls

Three weeks after the Blackwood incident, Silverlyn finally began sleeping through the night, or she thought she had.

But on the twenty-first night, she woke abruptly at 3:07 a.m., her alarm clock flashing the same minute Jonas vanished into the fog.

At first it was the flickering lights that pulled her out of sleep with the soft hum of electricity stuttering like a failing heartbeat. She sat up slowly, blinking at the trembling glow. Her apartment was still. It was as still as that same suffocating quiet from the Blackwood woods.

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Then she heard it.

A voice.
Soft. Familiar.

Coming from inside the wall beside her bed.

“Silverlyn…”

She froze.

The voice wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t in her mind. It was real, muffled and close, like someone whispering through drywall. Her breath stilled as she leaned slightly toward the sound.

“Silverlyn… please…”

Jonas.

Her heart dove to her stomach. She pressed her palm gently against the wall, the coolness biting her skin.

“Jonas?” she whispered.

The wall vibrated—almost like something brushed against the other side.

Then silence.

Silverlyn jerked her hand back, trembling. She flipped on every light in the apartment. The clock was still stuck at 3:07 a.m., even though the seconds should have been ticking.

Her chest felt tight. This wasn’t grief. It wasn’t hallucination.

Something was wrong.

Something was back.

The next morning, she found her bathroom mirror fogged up from the shower she hadn’t taken yet. A strange imprint spread across the glass, shadows in the shape of three figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bowed. Their silhouettes were thin, stretched unnaturally, like they were reaching from somewhere far.

Silverlyn stared at the mirror, at the misty shapes that vanished when she wiped the surface. But when she stepped back, they reappeared, only visible from a distance, as though they refused to be erased.

Her phone buzzed. Zara.

Silverlyn hesitated before answering. They had all agreed to stay in touch, but the nightmares had made her avoid everyone.

“Silverlyn?” Zara’s voice was shaky. “We need to talk. Now.”

Silverlyn swallowed. “Something happened last night.”

“I know,” Zara whispered. “That’s why I’m calling. The same thing happened here.”

A cold shiver ran down Silverlyn’s spine.

“What did you hear?” she asked.

Zara paused, voice trembling harder. “Not what—who. I heard someone walking in my hallway. Slow steps. But when I opened my bedroom door… there was no one.”

Silverlyn’s breath shallowed. “Zara… the pact is broken. The collectors dissolved. They’re gone.”

“No.” Zara inhaled sharply. “You don’t understand. Breaking the bowl didn’t end anything. It didn’t destroy the pact.”

Silverlyn felt her knees weaken. “Then what did we do?”

“We woke them.”

There was silence on the line, but not the peaceful kind. A thick, heavy pause.

“Woke who?” Silverlyn whispered.

“The original collectors,” Zara said. “The ones who created the Circle centuries ago. The ones the bowl was containing. They’re free now. Unbound. And they’re hunting separately.”

Silverlyn closed her eyes. “Why us?”

“Because we broke their seal,” Zara said. “Because we were tied to the pact. And because… one of us was meant to replace Jonas.”

Silverlyn felt the accusation—or fear—beneath Zara’s words.

“You think it’s me,” she said quietly.

Zara didn’t answer.

That evening, Silverlyn tore apart her apartment out of desperation to feel grounded. She checked behind paintings, under the bed, inside every closet. She even pressed her ear against each wall, listening for anything—anything—out of the ordinary.

Nothing happened.

Until she stepped on a small bump under her bedroom carpet.

She frowned, pulling the carpet edge upward. A loose floorboard peeked out. Carefully, she pried it open.

Inside was a folded scrap of yellowed paper.

Her stomach tightened.

When she opened it, her knees nearly buckled.

It was Jonas’s handwriting.

But the ink was old—like it had been written years before she ever met him.

Two lines stared back at her:

“You were chosen long before the pact.
Don’t trust the survivors.”

Silverlyn’s mind raced. Chosen? How? By whom? And why would Jonas warn her not to trust the others?

Was Zara lying?
Were the survivors hiding something?
Or had the collectors used Jonas to manipulate her?

Her hands shook. She didn’t notice the lights begin to flicker again.

Or that the clock had stopped.

Time: 3:07 a.m.

Even though it was early evening.

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She backed away from the open floorboard, slipping the message into her pocket.

Then the knocking began.

Slow.
Deep.
Coming from behind her bedroom wall.

Knock.

She flinched, breath caught.

Knock.

Her fingers twitched toward her phone, but she couldn’t move.

Knock.

Three times. Same as before.

Then a voice whispered—low, distorted, almost scraping.

“Silverlyn…”

Her breath hitched. She took one step back, then another.

“Jonas?” she whispered.

The voice paused.

“No.”

The air dropped ten degrees. Her skin prickled.

“I’m not Jonas.”

Silverlyn stumbled out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. The apartment seemed to darken around her, shadows stretching unnaturally.

The voice came again—closer, like it had moved.

“Let me out.”

Silverlyn’s hands shook so hard she could barely reach for her phone. She dialed Zara with trembling fingers.

Zara answered immediately. “Silverlyn! Are you safe?”

“No,” Silverlyn managed. “Someone—something—is knocking from inside my wall.”

Zara inhaled sharply. “Is it Jonas?”

“No,” Silverlyn whispered, remembering the voice. “It said it wasn’t.”

A thud echoed from the bedroom. Then another, stronger, rattling the door.

Zara’s tone hardened with fear. “Don’t go near it. Don’t answer. They mimic voices.”

Silverlyn froze. “What?”

“That’s how the original collectors hunt,” Zara said. “They imitate people you lost. People you trust. They try to lure you into places where their realm overlaps ours.”

Silverlyn leaned against her living room wall, tears blurring her vision.

“How do we stop them?”

“You can’t stop them,” Zara said. “But you can avoid them. I found something at my place too—an old blueprint of the Blackwood Circle. It shows a symbol that acts like a ward. I think we can draw it. Protective markings.”

Silverlyn wiped her face. “Come to my place. Please. I can’t be alone here.”

Zara hesitated. “I’ll come. But Silverlyn… there’s something you need to know first.”

A chill ran down Silverlyn’s spine. “What?”

“My mirror,” Zara whispered. “The shadows you saw? I saw them too. But mine… moved.”

Silverlyn felt a tremor run through her.

“And one of them,” Zara continued, “looked exactly like you.”

The call cut.

Suddenly.

Without static.

Her phone screen went black.

Silverlyn stared at her reflection in the darkened glass—her terrified eyes staring back.

Then another face appeared behind her reflection.

Not touching her. Not real.
A shadow shaped like her, but taller, thinner, its head tilted unnaturally.

She spun around.

Nothing was there.

Her chest tightened as fear clawed up her throat.

“Zara?” she whispered to the silent room. “Are you still alive?”

The answer came not from her phone but from the bedroom wall.

“Yes.”

The voice sounded nothing like Zara.

Thud.

Something hammered the bedroom door from inside.

Thud.

Again.

Thud.

The final blow cracked the wood, splintering the frame.

Silverlyn bolted for the exit, fumbling with the lock. Her fingers slipped on the handle but she managed to wrench the door open and flee into the corridor, slamming it shut behind her.

Her neighbors’ hallway was pitch black.

All the lights had gone out.

Behind her, the bedroom door inside her apartment groaned, then cracked again.

Footsteps—slow, heavy—began moving toward the exit.

Silverlyn ran.

Her feet slapped the cold ground as she raced down the stairwell. Every floor seemed darker than the last, the air thick with static. She burst through the lobby doors into the night, gasping for air.

The city outside was alive with distant car horns, lights, people, yet she felt completely alone.

She didn’t stop running until she reached the street corner. She leaned against a lamppost, chest heaving.

Then her phone buzzed in her pocket.

The screen flickered to life.
A text from an unknown number appeared:

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT.
IT’S FOLLOWING YOU NOW.”

Her breath caught.

Another message appeared immediately after.

“TURN AROUND.”

Silverlyn’s heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at the glowing phone, refusing to look back.

Then she heard it—

Knock.

Once.

Knock.

Twice.

Knock.

Thrice.

Right behind her.

She squeezed her eyes shut as her skin crawled with dread.

Then the whisper came—low, cold, crawling into her spine:

“I’m not Jonas.”

And the night swallowed her scream.