Whispers in the Floorboards

It was supposed to be a restoration project.

Eli and Marla Winslow had bought the derelict house on the edge of Briar Hollow for next to nothing. Newly married and full of ambition, they saw potential in the century-old Victorian with its ornate woodwork and wide, echoing halls. It was their dream home, a fixer-upper with history and character. The townspeople, however, gave them strange looks when they mentioned the address.

"That place doesn't stay sold for long," muttered the old woman at the hardware store.

"You’ll hear things. Might just be rats," the plumber warned, avoiding eye contact.

"If the house wants to keep something, it will," said no one directly—but the implication always lingered.

The Winslows didn’t listen. Ghost stories were just that: stories.

By day, they tore down rotting paneling and stripped wallpaper, revealing the bones of the house. But by night… the house began to show its teeth.

It started with footsteps.

Light, hesitant steps above them, pacing the second floor when no one was up there. Then came the muffled voices—whispers behind walls, just out of reach.

One night, Marla awoke to the sound of weeping. Soft, desperate sobs echoing through the floorboards beneath their bed.

"Eli... do you hear that?" she whispered.

He sat up, frowning. "Probably just the pipes."

But the sobbing continued—long, ragged breaths that stank of mildew and rot.

Eli got out of bed and stomped on the floor. "Hey! Shut up down there!"

The crying stopped—immediately. The silence that followed was worse.

They opened the basement the next day. The door had been painted shut from the inside. With effort, they pried it open. A thick wave of air escaped—stale, and warm like breath.

The stairs creaked horribly as they descended. The basement was empty except for a broken chair, a length of rusted chain, and a child’s shoe, half-buried in the dirt.

Eli laughed nervously. "Just old junk. We’ll clear it out later."

But that night, Marla heard something dragging itself up the basement stairs.

She locked the bedroom door.

The next day, Eli found deep scratch marks across the basement walls, as if someone—or something—had tried to claw their way out. He blamed raccoons.

That evening, Marla found a message scrawled in the condensation on the bathroom mirror: "GET OUT."

She screamed. Eli rushed in, but the writing was already gone.

They stopped sleeping. They started drinking. The air in the house grew thick, pressing against their lungs like a wet cloth. Sometimes they heard a low humming that made their teeth ache. Light bulbs burst. The cat vanished.

One night, Marla disappeared.

Eli had gone to the gas station. When he returned, the front door stood open. Her phone lay at the bottom of the stairs. He searched the house, screaming her name, but there was no trace.

Except for the whisper. Just once.

"She’s part of the house now."

He told the police. They searched for days. No evidence of foul play. No body. No signs of struggle. Just silence.

The house was listed again. And it waited.

Ten months later, a new couple came to see the property. They smiled at the wraparound porch and commented on the "quaint vintage feel."

Inside, the floorboards creaked under their feet. The walls seemed to hum softly.

In the upstairs hallway, the woman paused. She tilted her head.

"Do you hear that?" she asked her husband.

He frowned. "Hear what?"

Her eyes went wide. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Crying. It's coming from under the floor.