The Sound Beneath the Floor

Elena had just moved into a quaint old cottage nestled at the edge of a quiet forest. She loved the place instantly: the way the morning light filtered through the trees, the smell of pine, and the gentle creak of the floorboards under her feet. But on her first night, as she settled in, something strange happened. Just past midnight, she heard a faint sound coming from beneath the floor.

It was a soft, rhythmic tapping, almost like someone was gently knocking from beneath the wooden planks. She told herself it was probably an old pipe, or maybe even a small animal scurrying underneath, and brushed it off. But each night, the sound returned, growing louder, closer.

On the fourth night, she woke with a start as the tapping turned into scratching, long and insistent. Her heart raced, the hair on her neck prickling. She sat up, trying to calm herself, but the noise only grew more frantic, as though something were desperately clawing to escape.

"Stop it," she whispered, her voice shaky. "Please… just stop."

But the noise paused only briefly before resuming with more intensity.

Finally, as dawn broke, she gathered the courage to investigate. She pried up a loose floorboard in her living room, her hands trembling. Beneath the board was an old, dusty hatch leading to a root cellar. The air that wafted up was stale and cold, carrying a faint, rotten scent that made her stomach turn.

Ignoring the gnawing dread in her gut, she grabbed a flashlight and descended the creaking stairs into the cellar. Shadows danced in the dim light, and the space felt thick, suffocating. At the far end of the room, she noticed an old wooden chest covered in cobwebs. Every instinct screamed for her to leave it alone, but her hand moved on its own, compelled by a dreadful curiosity.

As she lifted the lid, the flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows across the cellar walls. Inside the chest lay a collection of old, withered dolls, their faces cracked and twisted, with eyes that seemed to follow her. But there was something else—a small, leather-bound book lying beneath the dolls.

With trembling hands, she opened it, reading the first line: "To those who dare open the door: Beware. The spirits are bound beneath."

A chill settled over her, and suddenly, the scratching resumed. This time, it was coming from every wall around her, surrounding her. It sounded like dozens of hands clawing from within the walls, desperate and angry.

Her flashlight flickered again, then died completely, plunging her into darkness. She felt something cold brush her ankle, and in a blind panic, she scrambled back up the stairs, slamming the hatch shut behind her.

But the scratching didn’t stop. It grew louder, now vibrating through the floorboards beneath her feet.

That night, she bolted every door and window shut, but sleep was impossible. The sounds were relentless, the scratching, clawing, and now faint whispers seeping through the walls: “You opened the door… now let us out.”

As dawn approached, she realized she could only silence them by leaving the cottage—forever. She grabbed her belongings and ran, never looking back.

Even now, she hears them in her dreams, whispering from beneath the floor, scratching, waiting. She can never escape, for she opened the door, and they will always know where to find her.

Thank you for reading The Sound Beneath the Floor. If this story sent a chill down your spine, please like and share so others can uncover its mystery. And remember—some things are better left undisturbed.