The Attic Floorboards

In the autumn of 2004, in the quiet town of Ashford, I was twelve and my best friend was eleven. We lived on a street of semi-detached houses, and our neighbor’s house had been empty for years, its windows staring blankly like dead eyes. That evening, my parents had gone to a dinner party, leaving us alone for a few hours. With the clocks turned back, darkness fell early, and by eight, the street was shrouded in a cold, damp gloom.

We were in the living room, watching a horror movie on low volume, when I heard a creak from above. I paused, looking up at the ceiling. My friend, Jake, noticed and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’ I shrugged, ‘Probably the house settling.’ But then came a distinct thud, as if something heavy had been dropped on the floor above. Jake’s eyes widened. ‘That’s the attic, right?’ I nodded, my heart starting to beat faster. The attic was directly above us, and my parents never went up there except to store old junk.

We tried to ignore it, turning up the volume to drown out the sounds. But the noises grew louder: a slow shuffle, then a bang that shook the ceiling. We exchanged nervous glances. ‘Maybe a bird got in?’ Jake suggested, but his voice was shaky. I shook my head, ‘No, it sounds too heavy.’ We decided to check it out, armed with a flashlight and a cricket bat. We crept up the stairs, each step creaking under our weight. The door to the attic was in the ceiling of my parent’s bedroom, with a pull-down ladder. The sounds had stopped, which was somehow worse.

I climbed the ladder first, pushing open the attic door. The air was cold and musty, and the beam of my flashlight revealed boxes, old furniture, and a single bare bulb dangling from a wire. I pulled the string, but the bulb flickered and died. We were plunged into near darkness, except for the flashlight. Then, a soft whisper came from the far corner, ‘You shouldn’t have come up.’ We froze. The voice wasn’t ours. It was low and grating, like nails on a chalkboard. I aimed the flashlight toward the sound, but saw nothing except a shadow that seemed to move.

Jake grabbed my arm. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ he hissed. We scrambled down, slamming the ladder shut. The noises resumed immediately, now right above us, as if whatever was up there was running. We ran to the living room and locked the door. The sounds continued for hours: footsteps, dragging, and the occasional giggle that made our blood run cold. We sat huddled on the couch, the TV off, listening in terror.

At one point, I thought I heard my name being called from upstairs, in a voice that was almost my mother’s, but wrong. ‘Tommy… come up…’ Jake shook me. ‘Don’t listen to it! It’s not real!’ But it was real enough. The phone line was dead when we tried to call our parents. The clock on the wall showed it was only 8:30, but it felt like midnight. Suddenly, from the kitchen, we heard a crash, followed by the sound of glass shattering. We unlocked the living room door and peered out. The kitchen was a mess: cabinets open, plates smashed on the floor. A foul odor, like rotting meat, wafted through the house.

We retreated back to the living room, barricading the door with a heavy armchair. The noises grew more frantic, moving from room to room. We heard the attic ladder creak down, then footsteps on the stairs. Something was descending. The doorknob jiggled, then turned slowly. The door bulged as if something heavy was pressing against it. I started to pray, though I’d never been religious. Jake was crying silently.

Just as we thought we were doomed, the sounds stopped. Silence, heavy and oppressive. Then, a single clear knock on the door, soft and almost polite. We held our breath, waiting. Another knock, then nothing. After what felt like an eternity, we heard the front door unlock, and my parents’ voices drifted in. ‘We’re home!’ my dad called. We sobbed with relief, rushing to unlock the door. When we told them what happened, they dismissed it as our imagination, pointing to the mess in the kitchen as proof we’d been playing around.

But I knew what we heard. The next morning, we found the attic door open, and a single, fresh footprint in the dust on the floorboards. It was huge, with toes like a man, but the stride was longer than any human. We never went up there again. And to this day, whenever I’m alone in that house, I still hear the creaking above, and I know that something is still up there, waiting for us to be alone once more.