The Crawlspace

I. The Sound of Breathing

Darren awoke in the dark. Not darkness like midnight, or the absence of light in a basement—but darkness like death, thick and complete, pressing on his eyelids even when open.

He couldn’t move. Not really. His limbs were pinned on either side, shoulders brushing rough insulation, his legs bent and aching beneath him. The air was stale, warm, and smelled faintly of rot. He inhaled sharply and immediately coughed—dust clawed at his throat.

“Hello?” he rasped.

No answer.

Panic crept in, slow and steady, like mold spreading over wallpaper. He tried again to shift, wriggling against the space’s constraint. Wooden beams scraped his back. Fiberglass insulation pricked his arms. Somewhere above, something shifted with a dull thud.

Where was he?

Then he remembered.

The house. The fixer-upper. He had crawled under the floorboards to check for termites. Just a quick inspection. Tina had called out from upstairs—something about the lights flickering—and he had yelled back to give him five minutes.

How long had it been?

His phone. Darren squirmed, forcing his right arm to slide slowly into his pocket. His fingers touched plastic, slick with sweat. He pulled it out, hit the screen.

Dead.

No light. No signal. Just a smooth black mirror reflecting his own fear back at him.

That’s when he heard it.

Breathing.

Not his own.

A slow, deliberate inhale.

A pause.

And an exhale.

Something else was in the crawlspace with him.

—

II. The Walls Close In

He pressed his face into the dirt, trying to find a gap, a crack—anything that might suggest a way out. He knew the layout. He’d entered from the back porch. Maybe fifteen feet in. He could crawl backwards—

But when he turned, a wall of damp cinderblock greeted him. That wasn’t there before.

His throat tightened. Sweat trickled into his eyes.

Impossible. There was no wall when he came in. He knew there was no wall. He’d looked back. He’d seen the light from the open hatch.

Unless he’d gone the wrong way? But in a straight crawlspace?

No.

That’s when the whispering began.

At first, it sounded like the rustling of mice. Then words formed, low and guttural, sliding beneath the range of language.

He couldn’t understand them. But he felt them. Accusatory.

“Coward.”

“Failure.”

“She saw the messages.”

“She knows.”

“She left.”

“No,” Darren muttered, clutching at his ears. “That’s not true. She didn’t. She—”

“She called me from upstairs,” he whispered, eyes widening. “That was today. She was still there.”

Then why was it so quiet now?

—

III. The Gnawing

He didn’t know how long he had been crawling—circling, maybe. Forward, back. Sideways. But the walls began to shift. Slightly at first. Then noticeably. The crawlspace became smaller. Claustrophobia clamped down like a vise.

His fingers scraped against something metallic—a nail sticking from the beam. He dug at it, but it snapped.

Blood pooled under his fingernails.

Somewhere to his left, the breathing returned.

Louder now. Closer.

Then the chewing started.

Wet. Loud. Teeth grinding flesh.

He dared to turn his head slightly and saw—eyes. Milky white, embedded in the insulation like fat maggots. A grin stretched impossibly wide, just inches from his face.

He screamed. But it came out wrong.

High-pitched. Unnatural. Like a dog howling in a dream.

IV. Breakage

“Please,” Darren sobbed. “I just want to get out.”

The voice that answered was his own—but broken. Like a tape recorder playing backwards.

“You put yourself here.”

“No.”

“You hid here.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You crawled away. You always crawl away.

He pressed his palms to the walls. The insulation pulsed, like skin. Wet warmth oozed between his fingers.

Then it moved.

The crawlspace breathed—inhaled—and pulled him deeper.

He clawed at the beams, his nails peeling back, screaming until his voice cracked.

Darkness swelled in his chest like ink in water.

V. Silence

The police found the crawlspace empty.

Tina had reported him missing after she returned from the store.

The hatch was still open.

His phone was never recovered.

The only trace?

Scratch marks in the beams.

And, faintly etched in blood:

"She knows."

—

End.

Jason Benskin | Psychological Horror | 2025