The Creak of Linoleum

I’m Margaret, and I’ve always had a sixth sense for the unseen, but that night in our new home in Salem, Oregon, tested me in ways I never expected. We had moved into a Victorian house, all creaking wood and peeling wallpaper, with a kitchen that smelled of old grease and mothballs. It was a fixer-upper, but we needed space for our four kids. I tried to ignore the occasional flicker of lights or the sense of being watched, attributing it to an old house settling.

At 4:00 AM, I was yanked from a dreamless sleep by a sound so distinct it felt like a physical touch: the slow, deliberate creak of linoleum, as if someone was stepping on the kitchen floor directly below our bedroom. But it wasn’t just a creak. It was accompanied by a low, guttural hum, like a refrigerator straining, but with a human quality. My five-year-old, Lily, stirred in her bed next to mine. Her eyes were wide, and she whispered, ‘Mommy, who’s cooking?’ The hum grew louder, and I realized it was coming through the floorboards, and with it, a rhythmic thumping, like a spoon against a pot.

I slipped out of bed, my heart thudding. My husband, Tom, remained asleep, snoring softly. I padded down the hallway, the floorboards groaning under my weight. As I reached the kitchen door, the sounds stopped. The room was dark, but the faint glow from the streetlight revealed the old gas stove, its pilot light a tiny blue flame. That’s when I saw it: a shadowy figure, hunched over the counter, its back to me. It was wearing a long, floral dress, like something from the 1950s. Its head was tilted, as if listening, and its hands were moving, kneading something on the counter. I couldn’t see what it was doing, but the smell of fresh bread suddenly filled the air, warm and yeasty, overriding the musty odor.

I must have gasped, because the figure froze. Slowly, it turned its head, but its face was obscured by shadow. Then it spoke, not with a mouth, but with a voice that seemed to vibrate through the floor: ‘You’re awake. I’ve been waiting.’ I backed away, but my feet were stuck. The figure raised a hand, and in it was a small, wooden rolling pin. ‘I’m making dinner,’ it said, and then it laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement.

The lights flickered on, blinding me. When my vision cleared, the figure was gone. But on the counter was a fresh loaf of bread, still steaming. I didn’t touch it. I ran back upstairs, my mind racing. Lily was sitting up in bed, calm, and she said, ‘The lady in the kitchen said she’ll make pancakes for breakfast.’ I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told Tom, but he dismissed it as a nightmare. But the bread was still there, real and tangible. And that night, at the same time, I heard the creaking again. I didn’t go down. Instead, I stayed in bed, listening. The humming started, then the thumping, and then a faint, singsong voice: ‘Little pig, little pig, let me come in.’ I pulled the covers over my head, but I could feel a cold draft, and the smell of burning sugar drifted up.

This has continued every night since. My children have started talking to ‘the lady’ in the kitchen. They say she’s nice, that she tells them stories while she cooks. But I saw her face, and I know it wasn’t human. The eyes were too wide, the smile too stretched. Yesterday, I found a jar of pickles in the pantry that I didn’t buy, and the label had a handwritten note: ‘For Margaret. Enjoy.’ I’m terrified to eat anything she creates, but I can’t throw it away. It’s a part of her, and I’m starting to feel her presence in my bones.

Last night, I finally mustered the courage to approach the kitchen again, armed with salt and a cross. She was there, standing by the stove, stirring a huge pot. She turned to me, and her face was fully visible this time: pale, with hollow cheeks and black pits for eyes. She smiled, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. ‘You’ll join me eventually,’ she whispered. ‘We have so much to cook.’ I dropped the salt, and the cross burned my hand. She watched me flee, and I heard her cackling as I ran.

Now, I’m writing this in the early hours, with the family packed and ready to leave. But as we load the car, I see her in the kitchen window, waving at me with a wooden spoon. And inside my purse, I find a neatly folded apron, embroidered with my initials, and a note: ‘See you soon, Margaret.’ I don’t know what she wants, but I fear she’s not a ghost. She’s something that feeds on fear, and my fear is her recipe. I’m terrified we’ll never truly leave her kitchen.