There’s Something Buried Under My House — And It Wants Out

When I first moved into the old Craftsman-style house on Willow Creek Lane, I thought I had found a dream. Wide porch, sturdy walls, charming creaks of history. I didn’t mind that it needed a little fixing. It felt alive in a way new houses never could.

But it didn’t take long before that feeling shifted into something darker.

The first sign was the thumping.

It started about a week after I moved in — low, slow, deliberate thuds coming from under the basement floor late at night. At first, I told myself it was pipes. Old houses made noises. I even laughed about it to friends, joking that my house had a heartbeat.

But by the third night, the thudding grew louder. Sharper. More… intentional.

And then there were the scratches.

I’d wake up in the morning to find faint, fresh scratches along the wooden basement door, as if something on the other side had been trying to get out.

I thought it was animals — maybe rats under the floorboards. So I called pest control.

When they came, they found nothing.

No droppings. No nests. No sign of life at all.

“Probably just the house settling,” the man said as he packed up his gear. But his voice shook slightly, and he didn’t meet my eyes.

The real terror began a week later.

I had just come back from work, tired and cranky, when I heard it again. This time, the thudding wasn’t under the floor.

It was inside the basement.

I grabbed a flashlight and swung open the basement door. Cold air rushed up the stairs — far too cold for a July evening. My breath fogged in front of me.

Against every instinct screaming in my head, I went down.

The flashlight beam trembled in my hand as I scanned the room. Dust floated in the air. Cobwebs stretched from wall to wall. Nothing moved.

But then, just as I was about to turn back, my foot hit something.

The concrete floor had a crack — long, jagged, splitting the foundation almost down the middle.

And the crack… was widening.

I knelt down and ran my fingers across it. That’s when I noticed something even stranger.

The concrete was warm. Almost pulsing.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept imagining things crawling out from under the floor, climbing the stairs, reaching for me while I slept.

At 3:07 a.m., I heard it again: scratch, scratch, scratch. Only this time, it was at my bedroom door.

I didn’t open it.

I didn’t move.

I just lay there, frozen, listening to whatever it was drag itself back down the hall toward the basement.

By morning, I had made up my mind.

I had to see what was under that crack.

Armed with a crowbar and hammer, I chipped away at the weak spot in the floor. Dust filled the air. My muscles screamed. But after an hour, I made a hole big enough to shine a flashlight through.

At first, I saw only dirt.

But then... something caught the light.

It was a small, leather-wrapped bundle, tied tight with rotting twine. The leather was cracked and blackened with age. It looked human-made—deliberately hidden.

I pulled it out with shaking hands. The bundle was surprisingly light.

Inside, wrapped carefully, was a collection of objects:

A rusted locket containing a photo of a little boy.

A brittle, yellowed parchment covered in strange symbols.

And a small, porcelain doll — its eyes gouged out, its mouth stitched shut with red thread.

I recoiled instinctively, feeling a wave of nausea and dread.

Underneath all of it, at the very bottom of the bundle, was a name carved into a piece of bone:

“Eleanor.”

That night, everything escalated.

The house vibrated with unseen footsteps.

The walls wept water, black and oily.

The air smelled like something had rotted long ago.

And then came the whispering.

It started low, almost like radio static. But as the night deepened, the whispers formed words.

"You woke me..."

"You broke the seal..."

"Now you must finish it..."

I covered my ears, huddled in a corner, tears streaming down my face.

At 3:07 a.m., the basement door slammed open on its own.

And something started crawling up the stairs.

I left that house before sunrise, leaving behind everything I owned.

I didn’t care.

I still don’t.

I never went back.

I never even looked back as I drove away.

But sometimes, late at night, I dream of the house.

Of the crack in the floor.

Of the thing that still waits there... buried, breathing, hungry.

And sometimes, when I wake, my ears ring with the same three words:

"Finish it now."