The Floorboard Cadence

In the quiet town of Ashford, my partner and I had settled into a charming old Victorian house, its creaky bones and drafty corners lending it a sense of history. I took up a new workout routine that fall, one that was gentle and deliberate, more about balance and form than exertion. Our lounge had a beautiful, polished oak floor, warmer under the morning light than the cramped bedroom, so I shifted my practice there.

One Tuesday, as I lay on my back, knees bent, legs spread in a wide stance, I felt a subtle vibration through the floorboards. It wasn’t from my own movement; I was perfectly still. The sensation was rhythmic, like a slow, deliberate tapping from directly beneath me. I paused, listening. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator. I shrugged it off, attributing it to old plumbing or the house settling. But the next day, it happened again, more pronounced. The taps followed a pattern, not random, like a heartbeat with a stutter.

I began to pay closer attention. The taps only occurred during my workout, not when I was reading or cooking. They seemed to emanate from a specific area near the fireplace, where a large, ornate rug lay. One evening, after an intense session of leg lifts, I placed my hand on the rug’s edge. The floor beneath was cold, unnaturally so, despite the fire crackling nearby. That’s when I noticed the rug had shifted slightly, as if something had moved it from underneath. I lifted the corner, revealing a small trapdoor I had never seen before, its hinges rusted, a faint outline of carved symbols barely visible in the dim light.

I decided to open it. The trapdoor creaked open to reveal a narrow, dark space with a wooden ladder descending into blackness. A musty smell, like damp earth and old paper, wafted up. I called down, my voice echoing, but only silence answered. My partner, a skeptic, laughed at my unease and suggested we close it. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard faint rustling from the lounge, a sound like shuffling feet and whispers too soft to understand.

In the following week, the taps grew more insistent, sometimes accompanying my movements, sometimes anticipating them. One day, as I did a deep lunge, I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck, though the room was empty. A low murmur, like a voice humming a lullaby from a forgotten era, wove through the air. I recorded the sounds on my phone; when I played it back, I heard not just the taps, but a faint, guttural word, repeated over and over: ‘Malka.’

The trapdoor refused to close fully now, as if held ajar by an unseen force. I placed a heavy chair on it, but each morning the chair was askew, and the door was more open. One afternoon, I gathered the courage to descend. The ladder led to a small, earthen cellar, empty save for a child’s toy horse, caked in dirt, and a leather-bound journal. The journal’s pages were brittle, filled with cramped handwriting that told of a former resident, a woman named Agatha, who had lost her daughter to a fever and had performed rituals to speak to her spirit. The last entry read: ‘She comes when the house sings, but she stays when the rhythm is true. I must keep the cadence.’

The implications chilled me. The taps, the pattern, they were a summoning. My workout had been a rhythm, and I had unwittingly become a conduit. That night, as I lay in bed, I heard the taps again, now in sync with my heartbeat. And then, I felt a small, cold hand touch my cheek. I bolted upright, but the room was empty. Yet, on the floor by the bed, was a fresh, wet footprint, no larger than a child’s, leading out the door and down the hall.

I moved out after a month, but I still hear the taps in my dreams, a steady, haunting cadence that grows louder each night. And sometimes, when I am perfectly still, I feel a cold breath, and a whisper: ‘Malka.’ I don’t know what she wants, but I’m terrified of what will happen when I finally lose the rhythm.