The Sound Beneath the Floor

The first night it happened, I thought it was the pipes.

A faint tapping beneath my bedroom floor — rhythmic, like a heartbeat out of sync. I pressed my ear against the old wooden boards, half expecting silence. But the sound grew louder, then stopped the moment I whispered, “Hello?”

For three nights straight, it returned. Always after midnight. Always the same pattern: tap… tap-tap… tap.

My apartment was in an old colonial building — creaky, charming, and supposedly haunted by history. The landlord swore no one lived below me. That floor, he said, was sealed off years ago.

I laughed it off at first. Then the dreams started.

Each night, I saw flashes — a girl with ink-black hair and a scar across her cheek. She would stand in the corner of my room, silent, holding a small wooden box.

When I woke up, my clock always read 3:07 a.m.

I decided to investigate.

I pulled up one of the loose floorboards near my desk. Dust spilled out — and something else. A thin, yellowed photograph.

It showed a family of three standing in front of the same building. The girl from my dreams stood in the middle, holding that same box.

On the back of the photo were four words written in faded pencil:

“Help me find it.”

The next night, the tapping came again — faster this time, desperate.

I followed it, step by step, until I reached the far corner of the room. The sound was strongest there. I lifted another board, and beneath it was a small compartment — perfectly cut.

Inside lay a child’s bracelet, broken in half. And beside it, a note.

“I was never meant to disappear.”

I called the landlord immediately. His voice shook when I mentioned the bracelet. He finally confessed: thirty years ago, a little girl went missing in that very apartment. The police found nothing. Her parents moved away. The unit was sealed.

That night, I placed the bracelet on my desk and whispered, “I found it.”

The air turned cold. The tapping stopped.

But at 3:07 a.m., my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:

“Thank you. But it’s not over.”

I moved out the next morning. Still, sometimes when I walk across wooden floors, I swear I hear that same rhythm — tap… tap-tap… tap.

And when I look down, I wonder what’s waiting beneath this one.

🪞 Ending Thought :

Some ghosts don’t want revenge. They just want to be remembered.