Redecorating

She heard it from the kitchen: it resembled the sound of chisels on granite. The cold night trickled fear into her bones, leaking like a broken pipe. She lingered in the doorway, the sound vibrating down her spine. “Scritch, scratch.” She flipped on the light. “Scritch, scritch, scratch.” Her son's unclipped toenails scraping across the wall. With unfocused accuracy, he chipped away the pastel. Bits of paint and flesh tore from his toes. She gagged - there was something behind the paint. Crimson drips marked backward words. It’s reflection in the murky bedroom mirror read: “Let me out.”