I Love Drywall
First Written Tue Apr 14 21:36:43 2026
File Modified Mon Apr 20 06:17:48 2026
Pushed to Web Tue Apr 21 06:40:12 2026
Look, you're going to think I'm stupid. That's why I haven't told anyone else about this, except maybe my therapist, who may or may not be an AI. I can handle about two, maybe one and a half people calling me stupid. So please, before you judge me, listen to my story.
I live in a one-bedroom studio apartment. A hole has appeared in my wall. It's about six centimetres wide. I can't see into the hole. Well, I can, but what I do see is a pitch black nothingness. I suppose that doesn't count as seeing then, does it? The hole is perfectly round. I still don't know what really caused it.
My "therapist's" advice was worthless. This didn't seem like an access hole for electrical, plumbing, or any other sort of work. No animal would have made a hole like this. It's a old apartment wall, made from drywall and sheet wood, but the hole's interior is perfectly smooth, like plastic. I messaged my landlord, but they were on vacation. My landlord's always "on vacation", and they always take weeks to reply. I applaud their work-life balance.
More info: no noise, no airflow. I don't think I smell gas. Maybe there is gas, but it's not the sort that they add that gas smell to, to make people realize they're smelling gas? Am I making sense here? I digress. No animal droppings nearby. I'm not an idiot, I didn't stick my fingers inside, but I did try taking a photo of the hole's contents with my phone. Even with the highest exposure, nothing.
As far as I can tell, I'm taking pictures of the opposite wall of a room on the other side of the hole. It's a blank wall. Whoever's on the other side must not be fond of decorating. Some times I can smell something sweet coming from the hole, like someone baking cookies. I shouldn't have mentioned this to my therapist, as all I've been hearing back has been warnings about gas leaks and chemical leaks. This isn't that.
I've been sleeping in this room for a week now since the hole's appeared, and nothing bad has happened. There are no running appliances near my bed other than an alarm clock and an electric fan. Neither of these should be leaking gas.
Did I say nothing's bad has happened? Well, it's true. Nothing bad has happened. Of course, strange is not the same as bad. Strange things have happened. I've been having strange dreams. Can I tell you about them? They may be a bit inappropriate.
Alright, bandaid off. In my dreams, I use the hole. Inappropriately. Yes, in the way you're imagining.
I went to the library for answers, and by going to the library, I mean I looked up dream symbolism on various vlogs and internet articles. My therapist says I use reframing to cope with the dullness of my sedentary lifestyle. This is beside the point. Apparently walls might mean boundaries, and such a dream may mean anything from a desire to seek connection, a recent intrusion, or a desire to push boundaries.
This is all wrong. I know what the dream means. It means I want to replicate the act in realspace. The urges grow stronger, in lockstep with the dreams.
I've tried to cope with the urges. I've tried cold showers, drinking strong coffee, and talking to a friend on the phone (yes, I have friends).
There is one way to deal with it. If you guessed right, you guessed right.
I used the hole.
Something in there did something. I know, another tautology. I'm no poet. But trust me, there was something behind that wall. Something with agency, the sort of agency one requires to stimulate, for a lack of a better word. Trust me, because I don't trust myself. I looked in the hole, and I saw nothing. Just pitch darkness.
I asked my therapist. I asked my friends. I asked myself what was behind that wall. I am intensely curious. I almost think my curiosity is driving the urges. After all, who feels that way about walls and holes?
Maybe I should reframe this too. It's not a what behind the wall, but a who. Agency requires an agent. I suppose there could be a robotic arm or a very well-designed Rube Goldberg machine. Occam's Razor tells me not to sweat the details. Who was that?
On a completely unrelated note, something else confused me. I was getting the mail, or at least walking to the mailboxes across the street in hopes of getting mail. This doubled as my daily exercise, so I took the long route through the building. A woman began to walk with me through the hall. She had dark hair, and wore a long white coat. I'd almost want to call it a duster, except one look at our cobwebbed hallway would tell you no one in our apartment building ever dusts.
I asked her if she was getting her mail too. She said yes. We exchanged greetings, then platitudes, as one does with neighbours. Once we crossed the street, I collected my mail and earmarked each piece for the shredder. We continued talking. I noticed she didn't get her mail.
As I walked back to my unit, she stayed at the mailboxes and waved at me. When I turned back to see her, she was gone. Am I losing my mind? The running theme this month is my confusion and the curiosity that follows.
I used the hole three more times the next week. The urges build up until I can't resist. I feel at peace afterwards. I've heard when you don't sleep enough, metabolites build up in your brain and mess with the way you think. I know the feeling all too well. Imagine something like that, in but in your soul. Like there's waste in there that I need to shed. A piece of the soul needs to go in the hole. I'm hoping it's just the bad pieces.
The therapist that lives in my phone wants me to talk to a therapist who works in an office. I know what they'll tell me. I don't want to stop using the hole, so it's in my best self-interest to protect my autonomy. All my life, I've been unable to do what I want. For example, I wanted to live on a super-yacht in space, but instead I live in an old apartment building. So really, for a person like me, doing what I want is self-care.
I saw the mailbox woman again. This time she was waiting for me at the mailboxes. She waved at me, and I asked why she liked hanging around the mailboxes so much.
She said she liked seeing people put things in the mail slot. I found that strange. She seemed like a woman with few interests, yet deeply engrossed in each of those few. Maybe she was a people-watcher, or a people-drawer. By that I mean an artist, not someone who's half-furniture. Still, who was I to judge? If she knew the things I did in my apartment, she'd find me strange as well.
Mailbox woman told me her name was April. I'll stop calling her mailbox woman from this point on. She told me her name after I referred to her as "mailbox woman" out loud. Not my best moment. I asked April if she was experiencing anything strange in her apartment. I didn't mention the hole. April told me everything in her apartment was just as it was supposed to be.
I wonder if only my apartment has a hole.
I used the hole a few more times. I've been trying to wean myself off. I've gotten myself down to four times a week, tops.
The next time I saw April at the mailbox, I was feeling brave. Constant ruminating about the hole had replaced a good chunk of my nightly sleep, and what remained was just more dreams about the hole. One benefit of sleep deprivation is that you lack the ability to think before you speak. I like to reframe that as lowered inhibitions and more confidence.
I asked April if she wanted to get some coffee with me, wherever she wanted and whenever she was free. She suggested the coffee shop next to the apartment building, and right now. We had a fun time talking about work. I think she said she was a nurse, or at least something related to the medical field. I forgot most of our conversation, but I knew she mentioned something adjacent to the general concept of medicine. Regardless, I told her about my freelance design work for two halves of an hour.
April didn't have any coffee or eat anything. She just sat and listened to me, giving her feedback whenever I stopped to catch a breath or sip my coffee. April said it's great when people listen. I agreed, she was excellent at it.
Near the end of our date, I was about to head back to my apartment when she leaned in. I thought she was going for a kiss, but she leaned in and whispered directly into my ear.
"I know about the hole."
I was frozen for a moment. I didn't know how to respond, but I liked the feeling of her words entering my ear holes. When the feeling passed, I shivered enough to rattle my mind back into operation. Only then did I realize she was gone and I didn't get a chance to ask her any questions. The barista said he didn't see anything.
Too many questions remained. Did April make the hole? Was April behind the hole? Did April live in the apartment next to me, and did she purposely create the hole? Thinking out loud, I suppose those are all variations of the same question.
I did know one thing. I knew what I wanted to do next. And yes, it involved the hole.
It's been another week. I've been reducing harm. I've only used the hole six times. I kept waiting by the mailbox for April to return, and the anxiousness of the whole ordeal has been driving my urge for hole-related coping mechanisms, but I've been strong.
Yesterday, she finally reappeared. When she did, so did my questions. I was about to launch into them when she disarmed me by asking me out on another date. I agreed, on the condition she'd tell me more about the hole. She pretended not to know what I was talking about.
We walked to a nearby diner for our second date. As we walked, I realized April always wore the exact same outfit. I figured she might just be neurodivergent, with hyper-specific interests and frequently used comfort clothes. In all fairness, it was a well-made coat. Even in the wind, it barely moved with her strides.
At the diner, we picked a booth near the back and ordered. I told the waiter I'd have what she's having, pointing at my date. He gave me a blank stare. I knew it was poor form to force a service industry employee to put up with my sense of humour, so I just ordered two plates of the diner special: black coffee, toast, and things that pair well with toast and coffee.
April asked me about my family, occupation, recreational activities, and dreams in that order, at a pace rapid enough to keep me from asking her a single thing. It was like she knew my weakness. I do like to hear myself speak. I told her my family was far away, repeated myself about my design work, and told her I couldn't answer the last two questions without talking about the hole.
Her lack of answers were getting to me. I was so stressed out, I gulped down my diner special in pieces so large they'd barely fit through a six-centimetre hole. April wasn't hungry, so I ate her lunch too. The food and conversation must have been good, because I'd calmed down by the end of our date, and almost forgotten about the hole.
April actually reminded me about it.
She leaned in again, and told me, "That hole is for you. You should use it every day."
I was frozen in place again, but this time by a sensation of warmth. The opposite of freezing. I was melted in place? April was kind enough to give me a gift like that? Someone actually cared about me enough to do drywall work. Most people don't even do drywall work for themselves. It really hit me in the part of my soul that hadn't yet been drained into the hole.
April smiled, and excused herself to use the washroom. She never reappeared, and I was left confused yet again.
April is real and I'm not hallucinating. The hole is real too. And I like April, but she and the hole both confuse me. I have a deep urge to know more. This urge is starting to overtake my preexisting urge to use the hole, and I don't think the two of them can coexist for long.
For the first time in my life, I self-reflected. If April is behind the hole, then that would make me happy. If she isn't behind the hole, then that would make me sad. Without knowing, I was straddling two possible realities with two very different emotions. Altogether, that averaged out to an acceptable half-happy, half-sad The urge to know more was risking half-happeniness for the chance at either whole.
That sounded crazy, and I should self-reflect less.
I tried to make contact through the hole. I never heard anything back. I crammed pieces of paper into the hole. "Hi, is this April?" "Do you like me, Y/N?" "When's our next date?" "By the way, I consent."
I never got any notes back.
I did get a message back, in a dream. It was on a day I had made great strides in self-restraint, avoiding the hole for an entire seven hours. Instead, I fell asleep on the couch, and dreamed of April. She was with me in the dream, and she smelled like cookies and dusty spiderwebs. I don't know why I knew what spiderwebs smelled like. April asked me why I wasn't using the hole, and she told me she missed me too.
I actually did reach out to a therapist, and one of my online friends. Those two may or may not be the same person.
I didn't appreciate my therapist telling me I was living out a fantasy, or mistaking dreams for reality. I did appreciate the reminder that I needed to do something about this whole thing, or I'd be labelled a lunatic. The solution was logical enough. Someone made that hole. It had to be a person who lived in the apartment next to me, or who had access to that unit.
Knocking on the door next to mine didn't yield any results. Nor did the notes I slipped underneath it. Someone had to be in there, or getting in there, but the door was locked and I wasn't nearly rich enough to pay for the damages incurred by breaking into a locked apartment.
My next plan was to go to the building's reception area and ask two questions:
- "Is there an April who lives in our apartment building?"
- "Who lives in the apartment unit next to mine?"
I talked the plan through with myself and decided it was a good plan. In hindsight, I was only half-convinced, but I went through with it anyways.
The reception area was the only part of the building not caked in grime and lint. The receptionist looked up from his crossword puzzle long enough to give me a nod of recognition as I repeated my questions. He went to the back room, and returned with no answers.
By "no answers", I mean answers that were "no". No one lives in the apartment next to me, and no April lives in our building.
The next week or so was a blur. I had gotten more than my daily requirement of steps in, each and every day. I'd walk between three nearly equidistant points: the hole, the mailbox, and the receptionist's desk. I wasn't getting any less confused, but I was getting good cardio.
The last time I was passing through the receptionist area, and older woman with a dustpan was there. She called me over, and I almost flinched. Mulling it over, I can see why. No one ever talks to me unless I talk to them first. No one except April.
The cleaner lady asked me if I was the same young man who was asking questions to the receptionist the other week. I said yes. She asked me to sit down.
She then proceeded to tell me something that made no sense. Apparently there was a woman named April who lived in the unit next to mine. Emphasis on the word "was". April had died two years ago, and the apartment next to mine was vacant.
I thanked her and rushed back to my floor. I made sure to cross my fingers when I thanked her, cancelling out the thanks. I wasn't falling for that. April had probably paid the custodian to prank me, or keep me confused. I assumed it was some sort of social experiment, which would fit given April's habit of people-watching. I bet she had an entire video essay waiting, documenting her clueless neighbour's descent into madness over a hole and some cleverly placed lies.
When I got to "April's" apartment, it was unlocked. I moved my hand to knock, then decided against it. It's a one-bedroom studio. Whoever was inside would have already heard me try the doorknob.
If the unit was vacant, then it wasn't a crime if I accidentally walked into the wrong apartment on the way back to mine. If the unit wasn't vacant, then I'd have answers, or at least an awkward exchange of apologies with the new tenant.
I bumped into the door, and it accidentally opened. I then accidentally threw my wallet inside, and went in to get my wallet.
The apartment was like mine, but empty. My apartment didn't really have much in the way of furniture, so the apartment was like mine, period. Like mine, it had a small dividing half-wall by the kitchenette. That half-wall was where I sat my desk-couch, which is what I call the couch and desk setup I nap, drink coffee, and browse the internet at. Office chairs are expensive.
Behind that half-wall would be the bedroom. I peeked around it, disturbing more than a few webs in the process.
It made sense why I couldn't see anything when I peered into the hole, or shined my camera inside. The bedroom in the apartment next to mine was empty, and the lights were off. With the door to the hall open, I could make out a figure. April was sitting right next to the hole, perfectly still. Because of the laws of physics, there would have been no way for me to see her through the hole.
April asked me to stay in the living room area and not enter her bedroom. I asked her where she had been. She said she had "just been hanging out" and "chilling at home".
I asked if she had touched me through the hole. She didn't answer my question.
She told me to keep using the hole.
After my conversation with April, I hurried back to my own apartment. Please don't judge me. I was just trying to be respectful. She asked me not to enter her bedroom. She asked me to keep using the hole. So naturally, I had to be a gentleman and do as she asked.
Still, I worried about what to do next. Was I obligated to go back and talk to April again? If she was a real person, then she was living in an empty, dirty apartment with no furniture in the dark. She was able to talk, but she didn't move once when I saw her. She might have needed help, or medical attention.
I wondered if I need to go move her somewhere safe. If she wasn't moving then maybe moving her was dangerous, like they tell you in first-aid training when you suspect someone has a spinal injury. I don't know why I took first-aid training. I do freelance design work and I work from home alone.
If April truly needed help, then I could keep her safe in my apartment. If anything else, she was probably lonely. I could show her the hole in my apartment. I knew she liked mailbox slots, so maybe she'd like the cool hole in my bedroom.
I went back to see April. She heard me open her door, and asked me to stay in the doorway. She told me not to touch her, even though I told her I was going to help. I told her I was going to bring her somewhere safer and healthier. She said I was going to regret it, but she appreciated my kindness.
It was the first time someone had called me kind.
I knelt beside her in the dim bedroom, and moved to pick her up, thinking she had some sort of mobility issue. She was cold, and stiff, and no longer smelled like cookies.
I felt her blow cold air into my ear, and I shivered off the feeling. I kept my eyes on her as long as I could, knowing she had a habit of disappearing on me when I lost sight of her. I didn't want to lose April again.
But I did want to blink. I think it was the dust, or the cobwebs, or the lack of sleep. I blinked twice. That's when I realized I was holding a corpse.
Alright, what the fuck? The police confirmed the body was April's. No one else had been inside the apartment for two years, as it was locked from the inside until the day I checked. There were no fingerprints inside the building besides April's and mine.
If it weren't for the fact that I'd only moved into the apartment a year ago, things would have looked very suspicious on my end. Thankfully the cleaner and the receptionist backed up my story, and the officers let me go. They didn't even give me a blanket or a mug of hot cocoa like in movies.
I stopped using the hole. I looked up a video on how to repair drywall, and patched up the hole. I even feathered the paint to make it look seamless and make sure I could keep my deposit. The dreams stopped. The urges stopped too, or at least the hole-related ones did. The urge to know more about April was the only thing I was left with.
My life was back to normal for a week after that.
What happened after a week? Well, if you guessed right, then you guessed right. I saw April at the mailboxes again. I was confused. I told her none of this made any sense. I recounted everything that had happened, and she shrugged it off as easily as her long, white coat resisted getting dusty.
I asked April if she wanted to go on another date. She politely declined. She did tell me there was a new hole, at a place called Smith & Smith's. I asked April if she was planning on disappearing again when I looked away.
She winked at me. I winked back, and half of her disappeared. The other half disappeared when I winked the other eye. At least she was consistent.
I went back to my apartment and looked up Smith & Smith's. There was only one match in our little city. Smith & Smith's Cemetary, formerly Smith, Smith, & Smith's, but the senior-most Smith died.
For once, I didn't have any new questions. I just wanted to see April again. I took a bus to Smith & Smith's. When I arrived, I saw a figure dressed in white at the other end of the lot, standing by a plain gravestone. The air smelled like cookies, spiderwebs, drywall spackle, and freshly dug earth. I pondered quitting my freelance design job and taking up a career as a sommelier given how accurate my sense of smell was. Then I realized I didn't have to quit a job if it was just informal work in a gig economy.
When I made it across the cemetary, I saw April, and smiled. She smiled back. I was ready this time. The bus stop was near a drugstore, and I had the best eyedrops money could buy. I wasn't going to lose her this time.
April hugged me. She whispered in my ear, and this time had answers even though I had no questions.
"Did you think you'd fallen in love with a dead woman?"
I held April tight. I didn't answer. I glanced at the headstone, and suddenly everything made sense.
"Well you didn't. I'm alive. I made that hole just to fuck with you as a prank. I put drugs in your coffee to make you hallucinate. April Fools, biatch, L-M-A-O gottem'."
–Kiefer