The Whispers Beneath the Floor

When Arif moved into the old colonial house on the outskirts of Murree, he thought he’d found a bargain too good to be true. The owner, a frail old man named Mr. Nadeem, had practically begged him to take it off his hands for half the price of any other property in the area.

“It’s sturdy,” the old man had said, his voice trembling. “Just… don’t go digging in the basement. Some things are better left buried.”

Arif laughed it off. He was a city boy who didn’t believe in ghost stories or superstitions. He was a practical man looking for a quiet place to write his novel. The house, with its creaking floors, long hallways, and antique furniture, felt perfect for his creative solitude.

But that first night, the silence didn’t feel peaceful—it felt alive.

Chapter 1: The Sound Below

At around 2 a.m., Arif was awakened by a faint scratching sound beneath the wooden floorboards.

At first, he assumed it was rats. He turned over in bed and tried to ignore it. But the sound grew louder—scratch… scratch… thud.

Then came the whisper.

A low, husky voice that seemed to come from the floor itself. “Let me out…”

Arif sat upright, heart pounding. The room was dark except for the pale moonlight seeping through the curtains. He held his breath, waiting. The whisper came again, this time clearer.

“Let… me… out.”

He froze. His rational mind scrambled for explanations. It could be the wind, an old pipe, his imagination. Anything but what it sounded like.

By morning, the sound had stopped. He convinced himself it was a dream.

Until he saw the dirt.

A small patch of loose soil near the corner of the living room floorboard—fresh, damp, as if something underneath had been disturbed.

Chapter 2: The Photograph

On the third day, while cleaning one of the upstairs rooms, Arif found an old family photograph wedged behind a cracked dresser. It showed a man, woman, and two children standing in front of the same house. Their faces were oddly blurred, except for the youngest child—a boy whose piercing eyes seemed to follow Arif wherever he moved.

On the back of the photo were the words:

> “We tried to seal it. Forgive us.”

Arif felt a chill creep down his spine. Seal what?

That night, the whispering returned. But this time, it wasn’t alone.

There was weeping—a woman’s sobs, faint but filled with pain. Then came a child’s laughter, echoing softly through the house.

He grabbed his phone and turned on the flashlight. As he moved toward the stairs, he noticed the light flickering. The floor beneath him felt oddly soft, almost as if something was breathing below it.

Suddenly, the bulb in the hallway shattered with a loud pop. The whisper turned into a scream—angry, desperate.

Chapter 3: The Basement Door

By morning, Arif had decided to leave. No book, no inspiration was worth this madness. But when he tried to open the front door, it wouldn’t budge. The locks turned, but the door stayed shut as if the house itself refused to let him go.

That’s when he remembered the basement—the one Mr. Nadeem had warned him about.

Maybe there was a secondary exit down there.

He found the key in an old drawer and unlocked the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway. The air that rushed out was icy cold, thick with the stench of damp earth and decay.

As his flashlight beam swept across the basement, he saw something that made his blood run cold—marks on the walls. Dozens of handprints, smeared in what looked like dried blood. In the center of the room was a small mound of dirt, freshly disturbed.

On top of the mound lay a rusted metal box.

He hesitated, then opened it. Inside were bones—tiny, fragile bones. A child’s. Along with a small wooden toy.

The moment he touched it, the whispering erupted into screams. The basement walls shook violently, dust raining down from the ceiling. The mound burst open—and something moved beneath the soil.

Chapter 4: The Truth Unearthed

Arif stumbled backward, tripping on the steps as skeletal hands clawed through the dirt. A child’s voice filled the air, shrill and broken.

“Why did you bury me? Why did you lock me here?”

Through the chaos, Arif saw visions—brief flashes like memories not his own. A family performing a ritual, chanting desperately, sealing the basement with salt and prayers. The boy, possessed by something dark, screaming as they buried him alive to contain it.

The whispers weren’t asking for freedom.

They were warning him not to let it out.

But it was too late.

The ground split open, and the black shadow that emerged was not human. It wrapped around him like smoke, whispering in a thousand voices at once. The last thing Arif heard before everything went black was his own voice joining the chorus.

Epilogue

Weeks later, a “For Sale” sign appeared in front of the old house again. The agent mentioned a writer who had mysteriously vanished.

When a new buyer came to visit, she noticed a faint whisper under her feet as she stepped inside.

“Let me out…”