The Gift Under the Floorboards

When I was six, my family moved into a creaking old farmhouse on the edge of a town that seemed to be perpetually gray. The house was known as the Drowning House because of the legend that a farmer had drowned his wife in the well out back, and her ghost still wandered the yard. But at six, I didn’t care about ghosts. I cared about the wide staircase, the hidden attic, and the fact that my new bedroom had a window seat perfect for spying on the snow that promised to come.

That Christmas Eve, the snow came—thick and silent, blanketing the world in white. I went to bed early, as I always did, to speed Santa’s arrival. I lay under my heavy quilt, the house settling around me with sighs and groans that I put down to an old home in cold weather. My mind was full of the next day: the pile of presents under the tree, the smell of cinnamon and pine, the feel of wrapping paper tearing. But the more I thought, the more awake I became. I counted sheep, I imagined a dark ocean, I tried to make my mind a blank page. It was no use. So I did what any restless child would do—I got up.

I tiptoed to the window, pressing my nose to the cold glass. The moon was full, and the yard was a sea of blue-white. And then I saw it: a light in the barn. Not a flickering lantern, but a steady, warm glow, like a candle. My parents were asleep, and the barn was locked. I knew that old tales said the farmer’s ghost wandered there, but I was curious. I pulled on my boots, wrapped in a blanket, and snuck out the back door.

The snow crunched under my feet. The wind bit at my cheeks. The barn door was ajar, and the light inside cast long shadows. I pushed it open and stepped in. The air was warm, impossibly warm. In the center of the barn stood a small table, and on it sat a beautifully wrapped box, no bigger than a shoebox, tied with a deep red ribbon. My name was written on the tag in spidery handwriting: “For Coral.”

I should have been suspicious. I should have run. But I was six, and it was Christmas, and a gift with my name on it was irresistible. I took the box, the warmth spreading through my hands, and carried it back to my room. I placed it under my bed, planning to open it in the morning, for I knew the rule: no presents until the sun rose. But as I lay in bed, I could feel the box humming beneath the floorboards, a vibration that seemed to sync with my heartbeat.

Morning came, and with it the usual chaos: my baby brother wailing, my parents sleep-deprived, and the living room overflowing with colorful packages. My parents had bought me a new coat, some drawing books, and a sled. But my mind kept drifting to the box under my bed. When everyone was occupied, I slipped away and retrieved it.

I sat on the floor and untied the ribbon. The lid lifted easily, and inside lay a single object: a small, brass locket on a chain. I opened the locket. It held a tiny photograph of a woman with sad eyes and long brown hair—someone I did not know. Hinged to the other side was a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it. In neat handwriting, it read: “She lingers by the well. She waits for you to find her. She will give you a wish if you set her free.”

A ghost story. My friends at school had told me about the Drowning House, about the woman who haunted the well. But this was just a locket. It was beautiful, and I wanted to keep it. But I was also scared. I decided to bury it in the back garden, to put it out of my mind. I put on my boots and coat and went out back, the locket cold in my pocket.

The garden was a thicket of bare roses, their thorns catching my sleeve. I knelt and began to dig a small hole. That’s when I heard it: a whisper, soft and clear, like a voice over my shoulder. “Coral, set me free.” I spun around. No one was there. But the snow began to fall with more fury, and the wind carried a child’s laugh.

I dropped the locket and ran back inside, slamming the door. The warmth of the house enveloped me, but I couldn’t shake the cold dread. My mother asked me what was wrong. I lied, saying I was cold. But my mind was racing. The locket, the whisper, the legend—it was all real. I had read somewhere that if you set a ghost free, they might grant you a wish. But at what cost?

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. I thought of the woman in the locket, of the well in the yard, of the story that she had been killed by her husband. And I felt a pull, an irresistible urge to go to the well. It was as if a golden thread was tugging at my navel, leading me outside. I fought it for as long as I could, but eventually, I slipped out of bed and walked to the back door. The snow had stopped. The moon was high. The well was a dark circle in the center of the yard.

I walked to the well, my bare feet leaving prints in the snow. I looked down. The water was black, reflecting the moonlight like a mirror. And then, from the depths, I saw a hand reaching up, pale and slender. A woman’s face appeared, her eyes wide. “Help me,” she said. “Throw the locket into the well.”

I had the locket with me, I realized—I had somehow brought it without knowing. I held it over the dark mouth. My heart pounded. If I let it drop, she would be free, and she might grant my deepest wish. What did I wish for? To be safe, to be happy, to have a friend—all the simple desires of a child. But deep down, I knew that any wish from a ghost was a trap.

But I was a child. Curiosity and the thrill of the supernatural overrode caution. I let go. The locket fell, and a splash echoed. A burst of cold air exploded from the well, knocking me back. Then silence. And then a woman in a soaking white dress climbed out of the well, water streaming from her hair. She was beautiful and terrible, her eyes black as the deep. She stood before me, and I was frozen.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice like a dry rustle. “For my freedom. I promised you a wish. Ask, and I shall grant it.”

I thought for a moment. I thought of my family, of the presents under the tree, of the warmth of the house. And then I thought of my fears—of the dark, of being alone, of the itch in my throat. “I wish… I wish that this night never happened. That I never found the box, never came to the well.”

The ghost tilted her head, a faint smile on her lips. “As you wish.”

And then the world went white. I woke in my bed, in the soft gray of dawn. Christmas morning. I ran to the window. The snow was pristine, no footprints. The barn was locked, the well was a black circle of stones. I rushed to the living room. My parents were there, sleep-drunk, and the pile of presents was untouched. I opened them with joy, and the day was perfect. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I went to my room to check under my bed—no box. I returned to the yard—no well. It was as if the well had vanished. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember that Christmas Eve. I only know that every year after, on Christmas morning, I find a single red ribbon on my pillow—a ribbon that feels a little too warm, a little too alive.

And I know, with a cold knowledge that settles in my bones, that the ghost is not free. She is still there, waiting, and the locket was never the key. I was. And my wish only gave her a new way to haunt me—through my own forgotten memory, into the gift under the floorboards that keeps giving.