He saw pictures in the wall.

A castle ruled by rabbits. Men who smoked the ashes of chimneys. A lady with a duck bill, hidden by a scarf. Giant twisted towns built out of striped sweaters and bits of cotton.

And the cameras.

He'd whisper in my ear as we sat in the attic, his voice hushed, telling stories, stories the wall had told him. In that room, time stood still, slow as honey, barely noticeable as it trickled past.

His hair was matted and his clothes were stained. He told me he hadn't slept in weeks, couldn't sleep, with them watching. He had a stubble that would grow into a beard and then into a series of cuts and scrapes. My uncle never changed; only his beard would change, grown and then hacked away, as if with blunt scissors.

Every Wednesday, after school, my mother would plop a red bow in my hair and push me out the car door. He'd be waiting, in his overgrown, weed infested house that leaned haphazardly to one side. He'd always be in the same room, his back to me, staring at the wall and whispering words under his breath.

His favorite story was the cameras. Eyes wide, he'd stare at the center of the wall, as if a movie was playing out in front of him. He'd tell me about the dark shapes that watched us, hidden behind pinpricks of light the fools called stars. They weren't stars. They were the steady glow of a camera light. The wall had told him.

In that empty room, I'd sit and nod my head and not say a word until I heard the car horn downstairs.

Every Wednesday, I'd come home and stare at the walls in my own room, while my mother sat upstairs pecking at her keyboard in silence. I'd look for the stories my uncle talked about, look for the frog-fairies and oceans of twisting clouds. The smooth yellow walls never yielded a single thing.

At night I'd listen to the ticking of the clock in the midnight hour and wonder why he kept lying to me.

But now I'm older and I don't visit my uncle anymore.

It doesn't matter.

The walls.

They've started to speak.

Whispers as dry as pages, fluttering in the wind. Splotches of paint and pockmarked holes twist into shapes, tell stories. They tell stories I know and stories I don't.

I never believed him.

But now I lie in bed, eyes wide open, as thousands of stars twinkle overhead, thousands of pinpricks of light, dark shapes behind them.

I can't sleep with them watching.