The first alarm went off on Monday evening. Everyone knew the house on the corner — a solid two-story cottage with a neat garden, faded indigo shutters, and a perfectly trimmed hedge. A couple in their sixties lived there. Quiet people, not involved in local affairs, but they always greeted others politely.
When the sharp sound first rang out, several neighbors came outside. They waited about five minutes — the alarm kept going. One family from across the street approached the house. The door was opened by the lady of the house — a woman in a knitted cardigan with neatly styled hair. She explained that nothing serious had happened, just a system malfunction. She said she’d get it fixed soon.
The next day, it happened again. Same time, just after nine in the evening. This time, no one went over. They assumed it was a technician’s mistake and didn’t want to interfere. A day later — again. Another evening, another siren. People began to complain about the noise and losing sleep. The lady would come outside, always calm and polite, saying the repair was already scheduled, the technician just hadn’t come yet.
This went on for almost a week. Same sound, same wall, same lady repeating that everything was under control.
On the sixth day, someone finally called the police.
When the alarm went off for the fourth time that week, they called. The responding officer — a woman with a firm voice and sharp eyes — inspected the house. Everything looked normal, tidy, almost sterile. No signs of forced entry. No signs of panic. Just the same polite woman, a little distracted.
— The wire, — the woman said. — Probably a loose connection. That’s all.
— Where is your husband? — the officer suddenly asked.
The woman froze, as if struck by lightning.
— He… he left. For a while. Visiting relatives.
The answer came too fast.
Something flickered in her eyes. The officer looked at the wall again. Its surface was slightly bulging. A mark of fresh filler. Her fingers brushed the paint — and felt an uneven spot. A gap.
An hour later, personnel arrived. The wall was opened.
Their faces turned pale.
Behind the drywall, curled up in a tiny space, was a man. Alive. Emaciated. With sagging skin and sunken eyes. He didn’t speak. He just stared.
Later it was discovered that the woman believed she had accidentally killed him during an argument — a heart attack, a blow to the head, panic — no one knew exactly. She sealed her husband behind the wall, never checking if he was still alive.
And the alarm system, installed in that very wall, kept going off from his weak movements — from trembling hands and subtle vibrations.
He was trying to send a signal. And he did.
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