The Banging Under the Floorboards

The summer I turned ten, my parents sent me and my brothers to stay with our grandparents in their old farmhouse outside of Wichita Falls. The house sat at the end of a long gravel road, surrounded by fields of dry grass that crackled in the wind. It was a place where the heat shimmered off the tin roof and the floorboards always creaked, even when no one was walking. My grandparents, Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Joe, were kind but strict, and they believed children should entertain themselves without the aid of screens or gadgets. So that July, with no TV and no video games, we were left to our own devices.

My younger brother, Tommy, was only seven, and he loved the water. Grandpa had installed a small above-ground pool on the back porch, and every evening, Grandma and Grandpa would sit in the pool chairs, watching Tommy splash around, their laughter drifting through the screen door. My middle brother, Sam, was twelve and thought he was too cool for everything. He found an old deck of cards in a drawer and set up a game of solitaire at the dining room table, his brow furrowed in concentration.

I was the middle child, but I often felt invisible. I chose the bedroom at the far end of the house, a narrow room with a single window that overlooked the dark fields. The room had a musty smell, like old books and dried flowers. Grandma had placed a painting of a hunting dog on the wall, its eyes seeming to follow me. There was no TV, no radio, just a creaky bed and a wooden dresser. To keep myself company, I sang softly to myself, the tune of an old hymn I’d learned in Sunday school.

That night, as I lay on the bed, listening to my own humming, the banging started. It was loud, rhythmic, like someone hammering against the walls from the outside. The sound came from the side of the house, and then it seemed to move underneath, echoing through the floorboards. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. The banging was so loud that the glass in the window rattled. I wanted to scream, to call for help, but my legs were like lead, and my throat closed up.

The banging continued for several minutes, then stopped as abruptly as it had started. I lay there, trembling, listening to the silence. I heard Sam’s footsteps in the hallway, and then the door creaked open. ‘What was that noise?’ he asked, his voice shaking. I could only shake my head. We both ran to the living room, where Grandpa was lighting his pipe. ‘Jackrabbits,’ he said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘They always make a ruckus under the house this time of year.’ But I didn’t believe him. The sound was too deliberate, too human.

The next night, it happened again. I was alone in my room, humming to keep myself company, when the banging began. This time it was faster, almost frantic, and it seemed to answer my humming. I stopped, and the banging stopped. I started humming again, and it resumed, harder. My blood turned cold. I felt like something was trying to communicate with me, but I didn’t want to answer.

The banging became a nightly occurrence. Each time, it seemed to grow louder, more desperate. I tried to tell my grandparents, but they dismissed it as rats or the wind. Even Sam started to believe them, though I could see the fear in his eyes. Only Tommy, innocent Tommy, was unaffected, splashing in the pool without a care.

One night, I decided to investigate. I waited until the house was quiet, then crept out of bed. I carried a small flashlight, its beam cutting through the blackness. I went to the side of the house where the banging always started. The ground was dry and cracked, but I noticed a small grate near the foundation. I knelt down and peered through it. I could see nothing but darkness, but I heard a faint scraping sound, like claws on wood. I pulled back, my hand trembling.

That’s when I heard a voice. It was low and raspy, barely audible above the wind. ‘Come down,’ it said. ‘We’re waiting.’ I stumbled back, falling into the dust. I scrambled to my feet and ran back inside, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I told Grandma Ruth everything. She listened, her face growing pale. She didn’t laugh or dismiss me. Instead, she led me to the cellar door, which was locked with a rusty padlock. ‘What’s down there?’ I asked. She hesitated, then said, ‘Your grandfather’s brother, Samuel. He was… not right in the head. He passed away in this house, in the cellar. We never opened it again.’

My blood ran cold. Samuel. Sam. My middle brother’s name. I looked at Sam, who was standing behind me, his face a mask of fear. ‘It’s not me,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not him.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the banging was a summons, a voice from the past that wouldn’t let go.

That night, I did something brave. I took Grandma’s key from her jewelry box and unlocked the cellar door. The stairs creaked under my weight as I descended, holding a lantern. The cellar was damp and cold, with shelves of old preserves and a dusty workbench. At the far corner, I saw a patch of floorboards that had been cut out, revealing bare earth. The banging started again, this time from directly beneath my feet. I knelt down, pressing my ear to the floor. Through the dust, I heard a voice, clear as day: ‘Sing for me, child.’

I opened my mouth and let out a terrified scream. The banging stopped, and in the silence, I heard a sigh, as if something had been waiting for that release. I scrambled up the stairs, slammed the cellar door, and locked it, vowing never to go back. But even now, years later, I sometimes hear that banging in my dreams, and I know that whatever was down there is still waiting, patient as the dust.

Now, I never visit that farmhouse. I can’t bear to hear the floorboards creak. And sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone, I start to hum, and I feel a cold draft under my door, and the banging begins again, answering me from the dark.

I don’t hum anymore. I listen to the silence, and I pray that it stays silent.

But it never does. It never does.