The Crooked Floorboard

My family moved into the old Atwater house in early November. The rent was a steal, and the landlord, a wiry man named Mr. Grimshaw, had a nervous tic that I chalked up to age. ‘The house has character,’ he said, winking. ‘But watch the basement stairs. The third one from the top is crooked.’ He laughed, but it was thin, like a cracking branch.

The house itself was a Victorian with creaking bones. My son, Caleb, claimed the basement for his gaming setup. It was a vast, unfinished space with a low ceiling and a dirt floor that smelled of damp and forgotten things. ‘It’s perfect for my streams,’ he said, but I noticed he’d started leaving the basement door open even when he was down there.

One night, I was in the kitchen making tea when I heard a crash from below. I hurried down the crooked steps, my heart thumping. Caleb was standing frozen, staring at the floor where shards of a ceramic plate lay scattered. ‘It just flew,’ he whispered. ‘It was on top of my monitor, and it just… flew across the room and smashed.’

I told him it must have been a draft or a vibration, but the windows were sealed, and there was no fan. He looked pale, and for a week he refused to go back down. But the lure of his games won over, and he descended again, though he’d always look over his shoulder.

Soon, he started complaining of a strange sickness whenever he headed down. ‘It’s like a wave of dizziness,’ he said. ‘Like the air gets thick.’ I tried it myself, and I felt nothing, but I noticed a faint, cloying smell, like rotten fruit, that seemed to come from the far corner of the basement—a corner we never used.

Then, there was the morning I woke my oldest, Marcus, at six for school. I heard the shower running, and I lay back on the couch, dozing. Then I heard footsteps overhead, slow and heavy, followed by a rhythmic thumping, as if someone was beating the floor with a fist. I called out, but Marcus was in the shower. The footsteps continued, moving from his room to the hallway, then stopped at the top of the stairs. A moment later, the bathroom door opened, and Marcus emerged, wet-haired. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked. He just shrugged, but his face was pale.

The dogs were the worst. They’d suddenly stop mid-play and stare at a wall, their hackles raised, barking at nothing. They’d whine and scratch at the baseboards as if trying to get under the house. My daughter, Lily, woke one night to the unmistakable sound of someone walking in the hallway. She got up, but the hallway was empty. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock, which had been stopped for years.

I started digging into the history of the house. It was built in the 1920s by a man named Elias Croft, a reclusive carpenter. He had a young son who died in the house, but there were no records of how. Some old newspapers mentioned a fire in the basement, but nothing else. I didn’t find anything else; the records just stopped, as if someone had erased them.

Then, I saw it. A listing for a 1972 Ouija board on eBay, from a seller in Maine. The description said it was ‘untested’ but ‘had a presence.’ I bought it on a whim, partly out of curiosity, partly out of a desperate need to understand what was happening. It was supposed to arrive on the twenty-second of January.

That night, I had a dream. I was walking down the basement stairs, counting them. One, two, three—the third one from the top gave way, and I fell into a darkness that smelled of rot. I woke with a start, my sheets soaked, and I heard a scraping sound from below. I crept to the stairwell and looked down. In the faint light from the street, I saw something at the bottom: a dark shape, like a crouched figure, but it was too large, too distorted. It seemed to vanish as I blinked.

The next day, I went to the basement to inspect the corner I’d smelled before. There was a loose floorboard there, and when I lifted it, I found a child’s shoe, a small, rusted toy, and a photograph of a boy with hollow eyes. Underneath was a piece of paper with the name ‘Samuel’ written in pencil, and the date: 1927. My blood ran cold.

I hadn’t told the kids, but I’d been hearing things too. Soft scratches at my door at night. A child’s laugh echoing in the walls. And the third stair from the top seemed to creak even when no one was on it.

The Ouija board arrived on the twenty-eighth. I brought it inside, wrapped in brown paper. I didn’t open it right away; I felt a strange reluctance. But that night, I placed it on the kitchen table. I called the kids together. ‘We’re going to talk to it,’ I said. ‘Maybe we can understand.’ They were hesitant, but Lily was intrigued, and Caleb just wanted the noises to stop.

We sat in a circle, our fingers on the planchette. The room was cold. I asked the first question. ‘Is there anyone here?’ The planchette moved, slowly, to YES. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ It spelled out: S-A-M-U-E-L. I felt a chill. ‘Why are you here?’ The planchette slid off the board, pointing to the basement door. It spelled: W-H-Y.

And then, from the basement, we heard the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. The dogs began to bark, not at the door, but at the ceiling. Lily started to cry. I forced myself to laugh it off, saying it was just the wind. But we all knew it wasn’t.

I still have the board. I haven’t used it since. But sometimes, when I walk past the basement door, I hear a faint whisper, like a child’s breath, and I see the third stair from the top seem to sigh. And I know Samuel is still there. He didn’t want us to ask why. He wanted us to remember what was done to him. And the crooked floorboard? It’s not just a step. It’s a reminder that the past never stays buried, and sometimes, it creaks under your feet.