I Found a Diary Under My Floorboards… And I Wish I Hadn’t Read It

When I bought the house, I was looking for quiet. A single-story cottage, built in 1912, just outside a forgotten Pennsylvania town. The real estate agent called it “charming with potential,” which, of course, meant it needed work.

I didn’t mind. After the divorce, all I wanted was solitude and something that felt like mine.

The house was silent in that old, creaky way—like it was always listening. The first few nights, I slept with a flashlight nearby. The wood groaned under pressure, and the wind whistled through the windows like someone sighing in their sleep.

On the sixth night, I noticed the draft.

It came from under the bed.

Not the window, not the vent—beneath the actual floorboards. I got on my knees and pushed back the rug. The wooden planks were warped and loose near the corner. My curiosity outweighed my unease.

With a screwdriver and some light swearing, I pried up the board. Beneath it, wrapped in what looked like oil-stained linen, was a book. A diary.

It was small and leather-bound, tied shut with a faded red ribbon. No name. Just the year scratched into the inside cover: 1923.

I should’ve stopped there. Put it back. Nailed the floor shut. But I didn’t.

The entries started off mundane:

March 3, 1923

The snow hasn’t stopped. I saw the neighbor’s boy at the well again. I told him not to drink from it. I hope he listens.

March 6, 1923

Ma says something’s wrong with the woods. The birds don’t sing anymore. She keeps hearing whispers at night.

March 9, 1923

I saw Pa talking to the dark again. Not in it. To it.

There were no names, no addresses. But the handwriting was small and deliberate. A child’s hand trying to write like an adult.

The diary turned darker the further I read.

March 14, 1923

The thing in the basement isn’t Pa anymore. Ma says we can’t feed it. But it scratches at the walls. I can’t sleep.

March 15, 1923

I buried the mirror. It was looking back at me when I wasn’t looking in.

March 18, 1923

The well is open again.

Each sentence felt like a cold breath on my neck. I kept telling myself it was fiction. A kid with too much imagination. But still… why was it hidden?

And why were the pages wet?

That night, I heard the first knock.

Three taps. Slow. From beneath the bed.

I froze. My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear the silence that followed. I leaned over the edge. Nothing.

I chalked it up to my nerves.

The next night, the knocking returned. But this time, it was followed by whispering.

I pressed my ear to the floorboards. Faint, almost inaudible, but there:

“...he read it... it knows now...”

I jumped back. My breath caught in my throat. I nailed the board shut. Duct-taped it for good measure. But the whispering didn’t stop.

It got louder.

I tried burning the diary. Took it out to the fire pit and watched the flames crawl over the cover. But the pages wouldn’t catch. They blackened slightly, curled like leaves—but didn’t burn.

When I threw it in, the fire hissed like it was choking.

The next morning, the diary was back under my bed. Exactly where I found it. Ribbon tied. Cover damp.

And then the writing changed.

March 25, 1923

He’s reading now. He’s listening.

We never left.

The floor is thin.

That same day, I found scratches on my basement walls. Long, ragged claw marks. Fresh.

There was no animal in there. Just me.

I haven’t slept in days. The whispering is constant now. Always at night. Always from under the bed. And now I swear I hear two voices:

One pleading.

One laughing.

And the diary—God help me—it’s still writing.

I watched a fresh line scrawl itself across the page last night:

April 29, 2025

He’s almost ready.

Ready for what?

I called the historical society, asked if anything strange ever happened at this house. The man on the phone paused too long before saying, “That property’s been vacant since the '40s. No one’s lasted more than a few months.”

I didn’t tell him I’ve been here for two.

The floorboards are breathing now.

I hear them at night—expanding, contracting—like lungs. Sometimes I see a face in the knot of the wood. Not clear. Just a suggestion.

Tonight, the knocking started again. Not from underneath this time. From inside the walls. And there’s something else—

A new entry.

May 8, 2025

You should not have read it.

Now it will read you.

I’m leaving this here for whoever finds it next. Burn the house if you have to. Never open the floor. Never read the diary.

Because I read it.

And I don’t think I’m me anymore.