The Floorboard’s Debt

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. But when my best friend, Danny, told me about what happened to him in that old house on Mulberry Lane, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was telling the truth. Danny isn’t the type to lie, not even to scare me. It took him years to even talk about it, and when he did, his voice was steady, his eyes distant, as if he were replaying a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

Danny grew up in a cramped two-bedroom terrace house on the edge of a town in the English Midlands, not far from the old canal. He lived with his mother and his older brother, Pete. It was a damp, narrow place, with creaking stairs and a smell of coal dust that never quite faded. When Danny was nine, he had a habit of waking up in the middle of the night, thirsty, and padding downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water.

One night, he woke with a start. The clock on his bedside table glowed 2:47 AM. The house was silent, but as he sat up, he heard it: a low, rhythmic tapping from below, like a loose floorboard being pressed and released. It came from the living room, right beneath his bedroom. Danny froze, listening. The tapping stopped. He told himself it was just the old pipes, or a rat, and forced himself to get up and go downstairs.

He stepped onto the landing and saw the living room door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beyond. The stairs creaked under his weight, and as he reached the bottom, the tapping started again, faster now, almost impatient. He pushed the door open slowly. The room was black except for the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. And there, in the corner by the fireplace, stood a tall figure. It was thin, impossibly thin, with arms that hung past its knees. Its skin was the color of old parchment, and its face was featureless, a smooth, pale oval.

Danny tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure tilted its head, as if listening, then took a step toward him. The floorboard beneath its foot creaked, and Danny realized that the tapping had been the sound of its footsteps, but it seemed to glide rather than walk. It moved closer, and Danny saw that its fingers were long, with nails like needles. It reached out, and Danny felt a cold hand on his shoulder, not gripping, just resting there. Then it leaned in, and a voice, dry and rustling like dead leaves, whispered in his ear: ‘You owe me.’

Danny yanked free and ran upstairs, his heart pounding. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. In the morning, he told his mother and brother, but they laughed it off, saying he’d had a nightmare. But Danny knew. He felt an odd weight in his pocket, and when he checked, he found a single, old coin—a coin with a foreign script he’d never seen before.

A week later, Danny’s mother mentioned that they had to move—their landlord was selling the house. They packed up quickly, and as they loaded the last boxes into the van, Danny saw the figure in the upstairs window, watching him. He felt a chill, and the coin in his pocket seemed to grow colder. When they drove away, Danny threw the coin out the window.

Years passed. Danny grew up, moved away, and tried to forget. But that coin, he’d later learn, was no ordinary coin. It was a token of a debt, and the figure was a collector, a being that stalked those who had taken something from it. Danny had taken the coin, and now it was owed a payment. It wasn’t until he was twenty-five, living in a quiet apartment in a new city, that he saw the figure again.

He woke at 2:47 AM, just like before. The apartment was cold, and the air smelled of dust. He heard that tapping, but this time, it was on his bedroom door. He lay frozen, listening as the door creaked open, and there it stood, even more gaunt, its head brushing the doorframe. It walked toward him, and Danny noticed that one of its hands was missing a finger. Its voice was a low rasp: ‘You’ve been avoiding payment long enough.’ Danny tried to speak, but his throat was tight. ‘What do you want?’ he managed. ‘Your debt is not money,’ the figure said. ‘It is a memory. A piece of your life. Every year, I will take one, until you have paid in full.’

Danny woke screaming, but nothing was taken that night. He soon realized that the figure could only collect if he acknowledged the coin’s existence, and he’d thrown it away. So he refused to think about it, refused to remember. But the nightmares began. Every night, he dreamed of the figure, and in his dreams, it would take a piece of his happiness, his trust, his joy. Within a year, Danny was a hollow shell, unable to feel anything but a dull, cold fear.

One night, he decided to end it. He went back to his hometown, found the old house, now derelict. He broke in, and in the living room, he pried up the floorboard where he’d first seen the figure. There, in the dust, was the coin, waiting. He picked it up, and the figure appeared, looming over him. ‘You came back,’ it said. ‘I’m not here to pay,’ Danny said, his voice shaking. ‘I’m here to void the debt.’ He held the coin up and bit down on it, feeling a jolt like an electric shock. The coin split in two, and the figure let out a shriek that rattled the walls. It began to dissolve into black smoke, but before it vanished, its voice filled the room: ‘You will carry my mark, and when you die, I will claim your soul.’

Danny never spoke of it again, but I know it’s true. Because I saw the mark on his chest—a faint, twisted symbol that appeared after that night. And when he died, at the age of thirty, from a sudden heart attack, his face was frozen in a silent scream. The doctor said it was natural, but I knew better. The debt was paid.

Now, I lie in bed, and I can’t sleep. I keep hearing a tapping from downstairs, and I wonder if the figure has found a new debtor. I should have never asked Danny to tell me his story. I should have never written it down. But I have, and now it’s yours to carry. Sleep tight.