For weeks, our house whispered at night—soft rustling, faint scratching, little shivers inside the walls we couldn’t explain. At first, we laughed it off: “Old pipes,” “a mouse,” “the ghosts of previous owners.” But the noises never stopped. They were deliberate, alive.
One morning, the sound jolted us awake. Something was moving inside the guest bedroom wall—pushing, scraping, vibrating. I pressed my ear to the drywall. It wasn’t a rat. It was bigger. Busier.
My husband snapped. “I’m done. We’re tearing that wall down.”
I didn’t argue. Whatever was in there, it wasn’t going away.
Axe in hand, he swung. Dust flew. And then the buzzing started—furious, agitated, almost like a warning.
When the first chunk of plaster fell, we froze.
Behind the wall, packed between the studs, was a massive nest, nearly four feet tall, pulsating with movement. Thousands of wasps clung to it, wings vibrating, filling the room with a low, menacing hum.
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