"The Silence Beneath the Floorboards"

The house on Elder Lane had been empty for nearly fifty years. Locals whispered about it—the creaking shutters, the strange lights at night, the sound of dragging footsteps echoing from inside long after sunset. But to sixteen-year-old Nora, it was just an old, forgotten house with the kind of mystery that begged to be solved.

She had always been drawn to abandoned places, especially ones with stories buried deeper than their foundations. So when her family moved to the sleepy town of Graybrook and she found herself living two houses down from that house, it was only a matter of time before curiosity overpowered caution.

One rainy afternoon, while the rest of the world retreated indoors, Nora slipped on her boots and made her way down Elder Lane. The gate creaked like an old man clearing his throat. The door, surprisingly, was unlocked.

Dust clung to the air inside like a second skin. Wallpaper peeled like old scabs, and the smell of mildew lingered like a warning. But what caught Nora’s attention most was the silence. It wasn’t just quiet—it was hollow, as if the house were holding its breath.

She explored the downstairs rooms with slow, reverent steps. Nothing seemed unusual until she reached the living room. In the center, a worn rug lay oddly misplaced. Tugging it aside, Nora uncovered wooden floorboards—and one in particular, slightly raised.

Her heart raced. She pressed down on it. It groaned but gave way slightly. Kneeling, she pried it open.

A cold draft rose up, carrying the scent of earth and something older—something forgotten.

Beneath the floorboard was a small, dark space. Inside, wrapped in decaying linen, was a journal.

Nora hesitated, then reached in and pulled it out. The cover, though worn, was intact. Embossed on the front were the initials E.L.

She opened it carefully. The entries were dated back to 1974, written in shaky, slanted script.

March 3, 1974

She cries every night. I begged Father to let her sleep in peace, but he says the silence is safer. That if we ignore the knocking, it’ll go away. But the knocking never stops.

Nora’s skin prickled.

March 5, 1974

I dreamt of her again. She was beneath the floor, screaming my name. When I woke up, the board above her bed had shifted.

More pages followed—distorted drawings, notes of sleepless nights, and a name repeated over and over: Clara.

Flipping to the last page, Nora read the final entry.

March 15, 1974

He said Clara ran away. That’s what the police will say too. But I know better. She didn’t leave. She’s still here. And I can’t live with the silence anymore.

That was it. The rest of the journal was blank.

A sudden sound shattered the stillness—a soft thump from upstairs.

Nora froze. The air shifted, and the house no longer felt empty.

Her instinct screamed at her to leave. But instead, she moved quietly toward the staircase, the journal clutched tightly in her hand.

The upstairs hallway was lined with doors, most ajar. Dust motes floated like ghosts in the filtered light. One door at the end stood shut.

The thumping came again.

Nora approached it, heart hammering. She turned the knob.

Inside was a child’s bedroom—small bed, faded wallpaper with stars, and in the far corner… a boarded-up wall panel.

It pulsed faintly with noise—thump... thump... thump.

Nora stepped closer. The sound stopped.

Then came a voice.

A child’s whisper.

“Help me...”

The air thickened. Nora’s fingers trembled as she reached out and touched the wood. It was warm.

Another whisper. “Don’t let him silence me again.”

Nora stepped back. Her mind reeled, but something deeper urged her forward—a sense that this wasn’t just a ghost story. This was a buried truth clawing to be seen.

She returned home, journal in hand. That night, she searched town records, old newspapers, anything. And there it was: a girl named Clara Langley. Eight years old. Reported missing in March 1974. Her brother, Edwin Langley—E.L.—was listed as a minor witness. No suspect. No resolution.

The next morning, Nora returned to the house with tools.

She pried open the boarded panel.

Behind it was a crawlspace, dark and narrow. She shone her flashlight inside—and saw the remains.

Small. Tucked into the corner.

Beside them, a silver locket engraved with C.L.

Nora called the police anonymously. The house was sealed off. Investigations reopened. Clara’s name made headlines. The mystery that had haunted Graybrook for fifty years was finally unearthed.

But Nora never told anyone about the journal. Or the voice.

She kept it in her drawer, wrapped in cloth, never opened again.

And some nights, when the wind howled through the trees, she thought she could hear it again—the faintest knock beneath her floorboards.