The Floorboard Cipher

In the autumn of 1983, I was a junior at Radcliffe, but my bank account had other ideas. So, I took a babysitting gig for a wealthy couple, the Ashworths, who lived in a sprawling Victorian mansion in the historic district of Cambridge, Massachusetts. The house was a maze of creaking oak, stained glass, and secrets.

The Ashworths were charming, with a four-year-old son, Leo, and a six-year-old daughter, Clara. Their parents, Eleanor and Phillip, were attending a gala and expected to return well after midnight. They gave me a tour, showed me the kids’ rooms, the pantry, and the panic room, which they jokingly called ‘the safe room,’ hidden behind a bookcase in the library. ‘We never use it,’ Eleanor said with a laugh, ‘but it’s there if you need it.’

That night, I put Leo and Clara to bed at eight. They were restless, but after a story about a dragon, they drifted off. I settled in the upstairs den, a cozy nook with a fireplace and a view of the overgrown garden. The dogs, a pair of golden retrievers named Biscuit and Marmalade, sprawled at my feet. I turned on the TV, volume low, and tried to read a chapter of my American Lit textbook. The house settled into its usual symphony of groans and ticks.

At eleven, I heard the kitchen door dead-bolt clank, followed by the heavy scrape of the door over the worn threshold. Footsteps crossed the hardwood floor below. The dogs jumped up, tails wagging, and padded out of the den, heading for the stairs. I assumed the Ashworths had returned early. I turned off the TV and followed the dogs to the landing.

But they stopped mid-flight, frozen on the top step. They looked back at me, then down toward the kitchen, their tails stiff. This was unusual—they usually barreled down to greet anyone. I called their names, but they didn’t move. I listened. The footsteps had stopped. The house was silent, save for the grandfather clock ticking in the hall.

I walked down to meet them, but as I reached the landing, the dogs turned and trotted back up, hiding behind me. I descended to the first floor, calling out, ‘Hello? Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth?’ No answer. The kitchen light was off, but the pantry door was ajar. I flicked the switch, and the room flooded with light, revealing empty counters, the back door closed. A chill ran through me.

I checked the hallway, the living room, the dining room—all empty. The dogs stayed glued to my heels, whimpering. I thought maybe I had imagined the sound; maybe it was just the house settling. But then I heard a faint scraping above, like furniture being moved. I crept back up the stairs, the dogs following reluctantly. I checked the kids’ rooms—they were asleep, covers rising and falling. I checked the master bedroom—empty. The den—empty. The third floor, which was mostly an attic, was locked. I jiggled the handle; it gave way, and I pushed the door open.

The attic was a dusty cavern of forgotten trunks and old furniture. The air was thick with cobwebs. I saw a shadow move in the corner, and a rat skittered away. I let out a breath. Then I noticed a pattern on the floor. The dust in one section had been disturbed, revealing a large square outline in the floorboards, as if something had been moved. I knelt down and traced the edges. There was a faint line, almost like a crack, forming a perfect square. I pressed down, and a section of flooring popped up, revealing a hidden compartment.

Inside was a wooden box, covered in a fine layer of dust. My heart hammered. I lifted it out, set it on a nearby trunk, and opened the lid. Inside were old photographs, a tarnished locket, and a leather-bound journal. I opened the journal; the pages were brittle, filled with elegant handwriting and strange sketches. The first entry was dated October 1889, signed by a woman named Margaret Ashworth.

I started reading. It was her diary, describing her life in this house. At first, it was mundane—tea parties, visits from neighbors. But then, entries became darker. She wrote about a presence in the house, a ‘visitor’ that would come at night, leaving cold spots and strange smells. She described finding her husband, Thomas, one night, in the attic, muttering to himself. He had made a mark on the floor—a circle with lines radiating out. He called it ‘the cipher.’

I looked down at the floor. The pattern of dust formed that same circle and lines. My skin prickled. The journal said the cipher was a key, a way to communicate with the other side. Thomas believed he could contact his dead brother. But Margaret wrote that something else answered, something that wore her husband’s face but wasn’t him.

I turned to a later entry. ‘Tonight, I saw it moving in the walls. It’s not confined to the attic. It goes where it pleases.’ There was a sketch of a distorted figure with too many joints. My blood ran cold.

Suddenly, I heard a noise downstairs—the kitchen door again. I slammed the journal shut, dropped it back in the box, and replaced the floorboard. I ran down the stairs, the dogs at my heels, and reached the kitchen just as the door swung shut. But no one was there. The room was empty, but the air was cold.

Then I heard a child’s giggle from the hallway. I turned, and Clara was standing there, rubbing her eyes. ‘There’s a man in my room,’ she said calmly. ‘He’s playing a game.’ My heart lurched. I scooped her up and ran upstairs, banging on Leo’s door. He was asleep. I checked the room—nothing. But as I stood there, I felt a presence behind me. I spun around. Nothing.

I decided to get the kids out. I grabbed them, bundled them in blankets, and ran to the car, but the keys weren’t in my purse. They were in the kitchen. I hesitantly went back, the kids clinging to me. As I retrieved the keys, I saw the kitchen door again—this time, it was slightly ajar. I didn’t waste a second. I herded the kids into the car, started the engine, and drove to the nearest police station.

The officers accompanied me back to the house. We searched everywhere, but found nothing. I showed them the attic, but the floorboard was seamless. They thought I had imagined it. When the Ashworths returned, Eleanor laughed it off, saying the house had a ‘history’ and that I must have been spooked by the wind. But I saw the look in her eyes—she knew something.

I never went back. But years later, I read in the newspaper that the Ashworths had sold the house, and a new family moved in. Six months later, they moved out, citing ‘strange occurrences.’ The article mentioned that the house had a hidden compartment found behind a wall, containing a diary and a wooden box. I never told anyone about the cipher or what I saw. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear that kitchen door clank, and I know it found me. It’s not done. It’s waiting for me to finish what Thomas started.

I’ve kept the secret, but the dreams have returned. In them, I see the cipher, and I hear a voice whispering, ‘Come find me. I’m here.’ And I wonder, if I did, what would answer?