The Count of the Hollow Floor

In the autumn of 2016, I was laid up in a rented farmhouse in rural Vermont, recovering from a herniated disc. The surgeon had fused two vertebrae, and the metal rods in my back made lying down a torment. So I spent my nights in a worn leather armchair, facing a bay window that overlooked a field of dead corn. Behind me, a long hallway led to the laundry room and a spare bedroom we never used. The house was old, with wide-plank pine floors that creaked in places, but I’d learned their geography. I knew every squeak, every groan, and I never made a sound because I walked heel-to-toe, like a cat, to avoid the pain jolting up my spine.

It was around 3 a.m. when I heard it: a loud, deliberate SQUEAK from the hallway, like a heavy foot pressing down on a loose board. My floors were carpeted, but the sound was unmistakable—a sharp, wooden cry. I froze, thinking it was the house settling, but then another SQUEAK, closer. And another. It was moving with intent, not the random shifting of an old structure. Each step was measured, rhythmic, like someone walking with purpose. I weighed 220 pounds, and I’d never once made that floor squeak, no matter how I stepped. But this thing—this thing was making it scream.

My heart hammered. I tried to rationalize: maybe a raccoon got in through the basement, maybe a branch scratching the window. But the sound was coming from the hallway, moving toward me. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles white. SQUEAK. SQUEAK. SQUEAK. It cleared the hall and entered the living room. I could feel a presence, something heavy, something watching me. Three more steps and it was at the end of my couch. I could sense it there, just a few feet away. A quick, scuttling three steps—SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK—and I knew it was directly behind my chair.

I snapped my head around, expecting to see something—a figure, a shadow, anything. But there was nothing. Just the empty room, the faint smell of dust, and my own panicked breathing. The air was cold, as if a window had been thrown open. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had seen me, that it had watched my face contort in terror, and that it was pleased. I sat there, trembling, until dawn broke through the frosted glass.

When my wife, Clara, woke up at seven, I told her everything. She rubbed her eyes and said, ‘It’s probably the painkillers. You’re dreaming.’ But I knew what I heard. The following night, I refused to take my meds. I sat in the same chair, the house silent except for the wind. At 3 a.m. sharp, the SQUEAKS returned. This time, I didn’t look. I closed my eyes and listened. The steps came closer, paused at the end of the couch, then circled behind me. I felt a breath on the back of my neck, cold and damp. I heard a voice, not from the air but from inside my skull: ‘You know this floor is mine.’

I gasped and turned, but again, nothing. The next day, I hobbled to the hardware store and bought a crowbar. I pulled up the carpet in the hallway, revealing the pine boards beneath. In the exact spot where the squeak originated, I found a shallow grave. Inside lay a child’s skeleton, wrapped in a moth-eaten quilt. The bones were small, fragile, and the skull had a crack. I stared at it for a long time, then I heard a faint SQUEAK behind me. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a small shape—a girl, maybe six years old, in a white nightgown, with hollow eyes. She pointed at the floor and whispered, ‘You found me.’

I called the local sheriff, and they unearthed more bones—over a dozen, all children, all buried beneath the floorboards, each one placed where the SQUEAKS originated. The house had been a way station for a traveling preacher in the 1920s, and he had taken orphans from nearby towns, promising them a home. He buried them under the house, and the floor had become a monument to their pain. The authorities sealed the property, but I couldn’t leave. Not yet. That night, I sat in the chair one last time. The SQUEAKS began, but this time, they weren’t menacing. They were a child’s playful steps, running through the hall, and then a soft giggle. I looked up, and the girl was there, smiling. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and then the house fell silent.

I left Vermont, but I still hear SQUEAKS in every house I visit, in every floor I walk. And sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I feel a small hand take mine, and I know the Count of the Hollow Floor hasn’t finished with me yet.