The Floorboards of the Old Mercer Place

My brother, Elias, and I never asked for the house. When our great-uncle passed, he left it to our parents, a sprawling, crooked thing on the edge of a town that had forgotten it. We moved in last autumn, and the house felt like it was still settling, its bones groaning with every gust of wind. My brother and I shared the largest bedroom on the second floor, a room with a high ceiling and a bay window that looked out onto a dead oak. The rest of the house was dusty and dim, but our room felt different, like it had been waiting for us.

The first week passed without incident. Then, the footsteps began. Every night, around three in the morning, I would hear them, a soft, deliberate tread on the other side of the room, near Elias’s bed. At first, I thought it was Elias, but he was always asleep, his chest rising and falling in the moonlight. I would call out, ‘Elias, are you walking?’ and he would mumble, ‘No, go back to sleep.’ But the sound persisted, a faint creak on the old floorboards, as if someone was pacing the length of his side, back and forth, never crossing to mine.

I tried to dismiss it as the house settling, but the pattern was too regular. It started the same time each night, and it stopped just as I was drifting off. I began to stay awake, listening, my heart hammering. One night, I decided to confront it. I threw off my covers and stood in the middle of the room, my bare feet cold on the wood. The footsteps stopped. I waited, minutes passed, and then I heard a whisper, so faint it could have been the wind, but it came from the corner where Elias’s bed stood. It said my name, ‘Miriam.’ I froze. Elias was asleep, I could see his silhouette. I did not sleep that night.

The next week, the whimpering started. I would wake to Elias’s soft, choked sounds, like he was dreaming of drowning. I would shake him, and he would startle, his eyes wide, and he would say, ‘She was there again, standing over me, but her face was wrong.’ I asked who, and he would just shake his head and turn away. It happened every night, and each time, the figure in his dream became clearer to him. He described a woman in a long dress, her hair hanging over her face, and she would lean close, whispering things he could not remember.

I began to notice that Elias was changing. He became pale, his eyes hollow. He refused to sleep on his side of the room, dragging his mattress to the center, but the footsteps and the whimpering followed him. I decided to investigate. I searched the house for any history, and in the attic, I found a box of old photographs. One was of a woman in a wedding dress, but her face was scratched out. On the back, in faded ink, was written, ‘Agnes, 1912.’ I showed it to Elias, and he recoiled. ‘That’s her,’ he whispered. ‘That’s the woman.’

That night, I lay awake, determined to see the figure. At three, the footsteps began, but they were heavier, more deliberate. I heard the floorboards creak near my bed, then stop. I held my breath. I heard a whisper, so close it might have been in my ear, ‘You should not have looked.’ I turned my head, and there was a shadow, a shape I could not make out, standing between our beds. It did not move, but I felt its presence, a cold that seeped into my skin. I screamed, and the shape vanished. Elias sat up, shaking, and said, ‘She’s angry now. She knows you saw her.’

We tried to leave, but the doors and windows seemed to have a will of their own. Every exit led back to the same room. The house had become a cage. We spent days in that room, huddled together, the footsteps and whispers growing louder, more insistent. On the third day, Elias woke up in the middle of the night, his eyes wide, and he spoke in a voice that was not his own, a cold, feminine tone, ‘This room is mine. You will join me.’ He lunged at me, but his hands missed, and he crumpled to the floor, sobbing. I held him, and he said, ‘She wants to trade places. She wants to live again, through us.’

I knew then what we had to do. We found in the attic an old journal, the pages yellowed, and in it, a ritual to seal the spirit to the house. We gathered the items, salt, iron, and a lock of the woman’s hair we found in a locket. We performed the ritual in the center of the room, reciting the words, and as we finished, the footsteps stopped, and a cold breeze passed through. We thought we had won. But the next night, I woke to find Elias standing over my bed, his face blank, and he whispered, ‘It’s your turn now.’ I screamed, and I woke up. But I was on his side of the room, and the footsteps were coming from where I lay.

We are trapped in an endless cycle. One of us is always the sleeper, the other the walker. The house feeds on our fear. We cannot leave, and we cannot die together. The only way out, I fear, is to give her what she wants, one of us must stay forever. But I will not let that happen. I will find a way to break the curse, even if it means burning this house to the ground, with her, and with us, if necessary. But I am not sure anymore what is real and what is her dream. The floorboards creak, and I wonder, who is walking now?