The Floorboard’s Reply

I woke up on a Sunday morning in my grandmother’s old farmhouse, the kind of place where the floorboards groan under your weight even when you’re standing still. My grandfather, Arthur, was downstairs making coffee, his usual routine. I stretched in bed, the thin curtains allowing weak morning light to filter through. As I rolled onto my back, a voice—clear as a bell—said, ‘Hey.’

It wasn’t my grandfather’s gravelly tone, nor was it the neighbor’s distant call. It was a young man’s voice, maybe seventeen, with no accent, coming from right beside my bed. I froze, my heart hammering. I had no brothers, and my father and uncle were both away. The only other person in the house was Grandpa, and he sounded nothing like that. I lay still for a long moment, then forced myself to breathe.

Determined to ignore it, I swung my legs out of bed. As my feet touched the cold wooden floor, I heard the unmistakable scuff of sandals dragging behind me. The sound was so close I felt a draft on my neck. I whirled around, but the room was empty. The curtains stirred, though the window was closed.

I walked to the hallway, my steps creaking, but behind me came the same dragging shuffle, matching my pace. I stopped. The shuffling stopped. I started again. It followed. My mouth went dry. I called out, ‘Grandpa?’ My voice cracked, but only silence answered, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs.

I made my way to the kitchen, my feet numb. Grandpa was at the stove, his back to me. I said, ‘Did you hear something?’ He turned, his eyes milky with age, and said, ‘Who?’ I told him about the voice and the footsteps. He set down his spatula, a strange look on his face. ‘It’s the house,’ he said. ‘It’s been doing that since your grandmother passed.’

I blinked. ‘What do you mean?’ He sighed and gestured to a loose floorboard near the pantry. ‘When we moved in, that board was already loose. Your grandmother used to say it was the ghost of a farmhand who died in the barn. He was only eighteen. He walked with a limp, dragging his feet. You’re hearing him.’ I stared at the board, the same one I’d tripped on a dozen times.

Then Grandpa added, ‘But he never says ‘Hey.’ He only ever whispers your name. That voice you heard wasn’t him.’ A chill ran down my spine. ‘Then who was it?’ Grandpa looked at me, his face pale. ‘I don’t know, but it’s not the first time I’ve heard it. Last week, it said ‘Arthur.’ I thought I was losing my mind.’

We stood in silence, the only sound the ticking clock. Then, from the hallway, we heard the dragging footsteps again, slow and deliberate, heading toward the front door. The door creaked open on its own, and we saw the silhouette of a young man standing there, his face obscured by shadow. He said, ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ Then he vanished, leaving the door wide open, the cold wind spilling in.

I turned to Grandpa, but he was staring at the floorboard. It was now slightly raised, as if something was pushing up from beneath. A tiny voice, barely a whisper, came from under it: ‘You’re not supposed to be here either.’ We both looked down, and the board lifted just enough to reveal a pair of small, skeletal hands beginning to claw its way out.