The Floor Above

My family had flown to San Felipe for my grandfather’s funeral, but I’d stayed behind. My mother had insisted, saying, ‘He’s gone, and losing your job won’t bring him back.’ So I stayed, with the house creaking around me like an old ship.

The first night alone was uneventful. I sat in the living room, scrolling through my phone, while my dog, Biscuit, dozed on the rug. I heard a few pops from the radiator, and once, a thump from the attic, but I shrugged it off as the house settling. Biscuit didn’t even lift his head.

The second night, though, was different. I’d put on an old horror movie, something about a flesh-eating creature, and was half-watching, half-dozing on the couch. Around 9 p.m., Biscuit’s ears perked up. He stared at the ceiling, then let out a low growl. ‘What is it, boy?’ I asked, but he just kept staring.

I tried to ignore it, but then I heard it: footsteps. Slow, deliberate, coming from the room directly above the living room, which was my parents’ bedroom. I knew it was impossible—they were hundreds of miles away. But I heard them clearly, the creak of floorboards under weight. I told myself it was the wind, or the house contracting. Yet the steps were rhythmic, like someone pacing.

I turned up the TV volume, trying to drown it out. But then I felt it: a presence behind me. Not a sound, but a weight in the air, as if someone were standing just out of sight, watching. Biscuit whined and hid under the coffee table, his tail between his legs.

I wanted to look, but I was frozen. My heart pounded in my ears. I strained to listen, and then I heard it: a slow, deliberate breath, right behind the couch. It was deep, too deep for a human, like something was savoring the air.

I finally forced myself to turn. There was nothing there. But the room felt colder, and the shadows in the corner seemed thicker. Biscuit started to howl, a long, quivering sound. I scrambled to turn on all the lights, but the darkness outside the windows pressed in.

The footsteps started again, this time coming down the stairs. I backed into the kitchen, grabbing a knife from the block. I waited, heart in my throat, as the steps grew closer. But they stopped just beyond the living room doorway.

Then, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. I answered, trembling. ‘Hi, honey,’ she said. ‘We’re at the wake. How are you doing?’

I whispered, ‘Mom, I think there’s something in the house.’

She laughed nervously. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just the wind. Did you check the attic door? It might have blown open.’

But I had checked. Everything was locked.

As I hung up, I heard another sound. This time from the hallway, the one leading to the bedrooms. A floorboard creaked. Then another. And then, a soft, muffled voice, almost like a child’s, said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m just visiting.’

I dropped the knife and ran out the front door, not stopping until I reached my car. I drove to a motel and didn’t come back until morning.

When I finally returned, with the sun high and the house bright, I found everything exactly as I’d left it. But on the kitchen counter, there was a note, written in a shaky hand: ‘I missed you.’

I called my mother immediately, but she said she hadn’t written it. And when I asked if there was any way someone could have been in the house, she went silent for a long moment.

Then she said, ‘Your grandfather used to say the house was built on an old burial ground. We always thought it was just his stories.’

I never stayed another night alone in that house. And I still don’t know who—or what—was pacing the floor above me, taking those deep breaths, waiting for me to leave.