The Carved Counter

In the autumn of 2016, I was house-sitting for my uncle in his old farmhouse on the outskirts of a small town. The house had been in the family for generations, and my uncle had warned me about its quirks: creaking floorboards, drafts, and a basement that always smelled of damp earth. I thought nothing of it. I was twenty-three, skeptical, and eager for a quiet month to finish my thesis.

One evening, my uncle had left for a business trip, and I was alone. I had just finished making dinner and was doing the dishes when I felt a sudden chill. The air turned icy, and the hairs on my arms stood up. I turned, expecting to see an open window, but everything was shut tight. That’s when I noticed the kitchen counter. It was a slab of polished granite, and in the center was a word, freshly carved as if by a knife: ‘STUCK’. I stared at it, my heart thumping. I had not touched that counter since I cleaned it an hour ago. I ran my fingers over the grooves, and they were cold and sharp. I backed away, then ran up to my bedroom, my mind racing.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Every shadow in the room seemed to shift, and every creak of the house made me jump. I tried to convince myself that someone must have broken in and played a prank, but the house was locked, and the word was gone when I tiptoed back downstairs to check. I even looked for marks on the granite, but it was as if it had never been carved. The next morning, I called my uncle, but he laughed it off, saying that the old house had a mind of its own. He told me to ‘not let it get to me.’

A few days later, my sister visited. We were catching up in the living room when we heard a heavy thumping from the cellar door. It was rhythmic, like someone pounding a fist. We exchanged a look, then slowly approached the door. The thumping stopped as we got near, and when I opened it, a gust of cold air rushed out, but the basement was empty. We closed the door and tried to laugh it off. Later that evening, I was in my room on my laptop, attempting to play an online game, but my connection was slow. Suddenly, a text document popped up on my screen. It was from an unknown sender, and it simply said ‘HELP’. I thought it was a virus, but I clicked on it, and the document expanded: ‘I am still here. Please.’ I typed a reply: ‘Who is this?’ After a few seconds, the document changed: ‘You know. I have been waiting.’ My hands shook as I slammed the laptop shut.

I told my sister the next morning, and she went pale. She said that she had seen something too, the night before, when she was in the bathroom. She saw a face pressed against the window, but when she blinked, it was gone. We decided to leave, but as we were packing, my uncle called. His voice was strange, distant. He said, ‘Don’t be alarmed, but I need to tell you something. The house was built over an old well. A woman fell into it a hundred years ago, and she was never found. Some say she is still down there.’ I froze. I asked him why he hadn’t told us, and he replied, ‘I didn’t want to scare you. Just don’t go near the basement.’

We ignored his warning. Curiosity and fear drove us to open the basement door again. This time, we went down the creaky wooden steps, the flashlight beam cutting through the dust. At the back, behind some old crates, we found a trapdoor. It was heavy, but we managed to lift it, revealing a dark, narrow hole. The air that came out was foul, like decay. I shone the light down and saw something at the bottom: a glint of metal. I climbed down, my sister following. It was a small chamber, and in the corner lay a rusty knife. Next to it, scratched into the dirt floor, were the words ‘HELP ME’ and ‘STUCK’.

We scrambled out of there, my heart pounding. We called my uncle again, but he didn’t answer. We drove back to town and stayed with a friend. That night, I had a dream. In the dream, I saw a woman in a white dress, her face hollow, reaching out from the trapdoor. She whispered, ‘You are the one who can free me.’ I woke up in a cold sweat. My sister was shaking me. She said that she had heard the thumping again, but this time it was coming from inside the walls of the friend’s house.

We knew we had to go back. The house was still ours to tend, and we couldn’t just leave it. When we returned, we found the kitchen counter had the word ‘STUCK’ carved into it again, but this time it was wet with something dark. The basement door was wide open. We went down, and the trapdoor was open as well. I peered into the hole and saw a pair of hands reaching up, clawing at the air. I screamed, and my sister grabbed me. We ran out of the house, got into the car, and drove away without looking back.

We never returned. My uncle eventually sold the house, and we never spoke of it again. But sometimes, when I am alone and the house is quiet, I feel a chill, and I swear I can hear a faint scratching, as if something is trying to carve a message into the walls of my apartment. I know what it says. It says ‘STUCK’. And I am afraid that one day, it will find a way out.