The Sound Beneath the Floorboards

The Sound Beneath the Floorboards

It started three nights after she moved in.

The apartment was older than it looked in the photos. The real estate agent had called it “vintage,” but Marla knew that was code for creaky pipes and forgotten ghosts. Still, the rent was cheap, the windows were big, and the radiator worked — most of the time.

She had just started unpacking her books when the sound came.

Tap. Tap-tap.

A pause.

Tap. Tap.

She froze, holding a worn copy of Wuthering Heights in one hand. The sound came again, deliberate and steady, from directly beneath her feet. She looked down at the warped wooden floorboards of her bedroom.

It didn’t sound like a mouse or pipes. It sounded…intentional. Like a message.

The tapping returned the next night. More rhythmic this time. Almost like…code?

She thought back to a project she did in school on Morse code and downloaded a reference guide to her phone. She began transcribing the taps on a notepad.

By the end of the week, she had something.

H-E-L-P

Marla laughed it off. Not because it was funny — it wasn’t — but because she had no idea what else to do with the information.

“Old buildings make weird sounds,” she told herself. “Maybe I’m just projecting.”

But the messages kept coming.

S-T-I-L-L-H-E-R-E

C-A-N-T-B-R-E-A-T-H-E

L-O-O-K

She didn’t tell anyone. Not her sister, not her new coworkers at the bookstore downtown. She already felt like the awkward loner who talked to herself while shelving novels. No need to add “floorboard whisperer” to the list.

And yet…each night, she found herself sitting on the floor, waiting. Listening. Writing.

Then one night, the message changed.

U-N-D-E-R-Y-O-U

She scrambled to her feet, backing away as if the words might rise up like steam and scorch her. But nothing happened. Just silence.

The next morning, she brought out her toolbox. The floorboard directly beneath her bed looked slightly darker than the others. Different. Her fingers traced the edges, finding an uneven ridge. She wedged a flathead screwdriver into the seam and pried upward.

The board groaned, then lifted.

Dust swirled like ash from an urn. Beneath the floor, in the shallow crawlspace, she found a small metal box wrapped in faded red cloth.

She pulled it out with trembling hands and opened the rusted latch.

Inside was a stack of letters. Real paper, delicate and yellowed. She read the first one.

“To whoever finds this — my name is Clara Danvers. If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I was kept here. Trapped. He told everyone I left town, but I never left this building.”

The words blurred as Marla’s eyes filled with tears.

“He said no one would hear me. But I kept tapping. I kept hoping.”

Marla called the police anonymously. She didn’t want to be questioned. She didn’t want the story to be about her.

The news broke two days later. “Human Remains Found in Historic Apartment Building.” The bones were buried beneath the foundation, in the crawlspace that ran between units. No suspects named, but an old maintenance man had once owned the building. Long dead now. Gone before Clara’s story could be told.

After that, the tapping stopped.

Marla should’ve felt relief — and part of her did — but the silence felt heavy. Final.

She placed the letters in a waterproof envelope and tucked them back beneath the floorboard, under her bed. It didn’t feel right to keep them.

Clara had waited long enough to be heard.

Three weeks passed. One night, Marla came home late from work, exhausted and numb. She flopped onto the bed without changing, her limbs leaden with fatigue.

That’s when she heard it.

Tap. Tap-tap.

Her body tensed. The pattern was different now. Slower. Calmer. Curious.

She reached for her notepad, heart pounding in a way that was no longer fear — more like familiarity.

T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U

Marla smiled.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

And the tapping stopped — for good.

END