The Hollow Floor

It was the winter of 2012 when the old bakery above my sister’s shop became our sanctuary. The building, a relic from the 1920s, had been converted into a cramped apartment, but the rent was a steal, and the landlord, Mr. Kovac, was too eager to have us. My sister, Lena, had just gone through a messy divorce, and I, a struggling artist, needed a place to crash. So we took it.

From the start, something was off. The floorboards creaked in patterns that didn’t match our footsteps, and the air always smelled faintly of stale flour and burnt sugar. Lena joked that the ghosts of bakers were still at work, but her laughter never reached her eyes. I, on the other hand, had always been sensitive to the unseen. Not in a dramatic way, but I’d get these dreams—vivid, cryptic visions that often portended death. My grandmother had the same gift, and she’d warned me to never speak of it, else I’d invite the wrong kind of attention.

The first night, I dreamed of a woman in a yellow dress, standing in the corner of the bedroom, her face obscured by a veil of dust. She pointed to a spot on the floor, and when I looked, I saw a crack that bled a dark, viscous liquid. I woke up gasping, my heart pounding. Lena was already awake, staring at the ceiling. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. ‘Hear what?’ I asked. ‘Scratching. Under the floor.’

We dismissed it as rats, but the dreams persisted. Each night, the woman returned, always pointing to that same crack. I started sketching her, trying to capture her likeness, hoping to understand. My sketches grew more detailed, and I noticed she wore a locket with a faded photograph. In one dream, she opened it, revealing a man’s face, and then she mouthed a name: ‘Milo.’

Curiosity got the better of me. I began researching the building’s history. The bakery had been run by a couple, the Milic family, until a fire in 1968. They’d had a son, Milo, who was never found. Rumors said he’d been playing hide-and-seek under the floorboards when the blaze started. The parents had died in the fire, but the boy’s remains were never recovered.

I shared this with Lena, and she grew pale. ‘I found something,’ she said, holding up a floorboard she’d pried loose. Underneath was a child’s shoe, caked in black soot, and a tarnished locket. The locket matched the one in my dreams. Inside was a picture of a young boy—Milo.

Terrified but compelled, we dug deeper. Beneath the shoe, we found a small, leather-bound journal. Its pages were brittle, and the ink was smeared, but I deciphered the words: ‘She won’t let me leave. She says I have to stay until someone finds me. But she’s lonely. She’ll take anyone.’

The dreams grew more intense. The woman in yellow started moving. She wasn’t just pointing anymore; she was beckoning. And in the waking world, we heard footsteps, doors opening, and the faint sound of a music box playing a lullaby. I found myself drawn to the spot she indicated, and one night, I pried up the floorboards myself. There was a hollow space, and inside, a small box. It contained a lock of grey hair and a note: ‘For Milo’s new friend.’

We knew we had to leave. But as we packed, the lights flickered, and the music box grew louder. Lena screamed. She was in the doorway, her face twisted in terror. ‘She’s here,’ she cried. ‘Behind you.’

I turned. The woman in yellow stood in the corner, her face now clear. It was not human. Her eyes were voids, and her mouth stretched into a smile that split her cheeks. She reached out, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, pushing me toward the hole in the floor.

I struggled, but the floor gave way. I fell into darkness, and the last thing I heard was Lena’s scream and the lullaby, now distorted, like a record spinning at the wrong speed.

I don’t know how long I was down there. I woke to the smell of burnt sugar. The space was narrow, just like a child’s hiding spot. I was buried, but alive. Above me, I heard Lena’s voice, muffled, calling my name. But then, a softer voice, a child’s, whispered in my ear: ‘She won’t let you go either. But that’s okay. I’ll keep you company.’

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was not in the space anymore. I was standing in the bedroom, but it looked different—older, with peeling wallpaper and a broken window. A woman in yellow stood by the bed, and beside her, a boy with hollow eyes. They looked at me and smiled. ‘Welcome,’ they said in unison. ‘You’re home now.’

And the worst part? I understood. The dreams weren’t a warning. They were an invitation. And I had accepted.