The Whispers Beneath the Floorboards

The house had always been too quiet for Emily’s liking. It wasn’t the silence of peace; it was the kind of silence that felt suffocating, like the world itself was holding its breath. When her family moved into the old manor on the outskirts of town, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her. Something that had always been there, just beneath the surface.

The house had been abandoned for years before they found it, and the price had been too good to pass up. The real estate agent had assured them it was just “old” and “full of character,” but Emily had a different sense of it. The place was decaying, and the air was thick with the musty scent of neglect. But there was one room that bothered her the most—the living room. It wasn’t that it was particularly strange in any way. It was just... off. The floorboards, in particular, seemed unnaturally warped, as if something was pushing up from beneath them.

One evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Emily decided to investigate. She had heard strange noises coming from the floor every night—soft scratching sounds, like something was trying to dig its way out. The first time she thought it was just the house settling, but the noises persisted, growing louder and more frantic.

She knelt on the floor, her ear pressed against the warped boards, trying to make sense of the sound. It was faint at first, like a whisper, but it quickly grew into a chorus of voices, a low murmur that sent shivers down her spine. "Help me... help me..."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she recoiled. The sound was unmistakable, and it wasn’t the wind, or an animal, or even the house settling. It was something—or someone—beneath the floor, calling out to her.

With trembling hands, Emily grabbed a hammer from the toolbox in the corner of the room. She hesitated, but only for a moment. The curiosity, the need to know what was underneath, was too strong. She lifted the floorboard with a swift strike of the hammer, revealing a small, dark space below. A narrow tunnel, lined with damp earth and cobwebs, stretched far into the shadows.

The air that wafted up from the hole was thick, wet, and cold. It smelled like something forgotten—a smell of decay and rot. Emily’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she saw what lay beneath.

A wooden box.

It was old, stained with what looked like dried blood, and covered in strange, runic symbols. The whispers grew louder, more urgent now. "Open it... open it..."

Against every instinct, Emily reached for the box. Her fingers brushed against the cold wood, sending a jolt of electricity through her. She felt an undeniable pull, a compulsion to open it. But as her hands closed around the box, the whispers stopped, and the room went eerily silent.

With a deep breath, she lifted the lid. What she saw inside made her gasp.

The box was empty, but the moment she opened it, something stirred. A shape, a dark form, seemed to slither out from the shadows within. It moved with a speed and fluidity that made her stomach churn. She stumbled backward, her heart racing as the shape grew larger, taking form. It was a figure, humanoid in shape, but its face was... wrong. It had no eyes, just two hollow sockets that seemed to peer into her soul. Its mouth, wide and jagged, stretched into a grotesque smile as it crawled out of the box and onto the floor.

Emily froze, unable to move, unable to scream. The figure seemed to sense her fear, its mouth twitching as if it were savoring her terror.

"Help me..." it rasped, its voice a croaky, desperate whisper. The voice was no longer just a whisper from beneath the floor. It was all around her, the words slithering into her mind like poison.

The figure reached out for her, its fingers long and spindly, like twisted branches reaching for the light. She backed away, but it followed, its hollow eyes locked onto hers.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she scrambled to her feet. She made a desperate dash for the door, but as she reached for the handle, the room began to distort. The walls seemed to bend inward, the floor cracking open, revealing the tunnel beneath. The figure was no longer just crawling—it was now rushing toward her with terrifying speed, the whispers growing louder, more frenzied.

She turned and ran, tearing through the house, hearing the scuttling sound of its movements behind her. But no matter how fast she ran, the house seemed to stretch on forever, its walls closing in around her. The figure was always just a step behind, its breath cold on her neck.

In the end, she didn’t escape. She never made it out of the house. The next morning, her parents found her standing in the living room, her eyes wide and vacant, staring at the floorboards she had pried up the night before. Her mouth moved in silent whispers, but there was no one left to hear them.

They never spoke of it again, and the house was sold off to another family. But the whispers never stopped. They could still be heard late at night, coming from beneath the floorboards, calling to anyone who dared listen.

"Help me..."

And if you ever happen to be in that old house, and you hear those whispers, know this: the thing beneath the floorboards is waiting. And it will never stop calling until someone answers.

Thank you for reading The Whispers Beneath the Floorboards. If the chill of the story hasn’t left you yet, hit the like button and share it with those brave enough to uncover the secrets hidden in the shadows. Be careful where you step... the floor may not be as solid as it seems.