The Itch Beneath the Floorboards

It had been two years since we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the marsh. The place had a smell of wet wood and something else—something sweet, like rotting apples. I never liked it, especially the big bedroom I shared with my sisters. The room was too large, with a high ceiling that seemed to swallow sound, and the floorboards creaked even when no one walked on them. I felt watched, always, as if the house itself had eyes in the walls.

One night, about three months ago, I was lying in bed at midnight. My eleven-year-old sister, Clara, and my two-year-old niece, Lily, were asleep in their beds across the room. The only light came from the pale glow of my phone as I watched a show about bargain stores. It was mindless, but it kept the silence at bay. After a while, I closed my eyes, trying to fall asleep. The white noise of the TV faded, and the room grew still.

Then I felt it. Something touched my leg.

I froze, my breath catching. It wasn’t a hand or a foot—it was a tickle, like a spider crawling up my calf, but slower, more deliberate. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, telling myself it was just a draft, or a stray hair. But the tickle turned into a pressure, as if something was pressing a finger into my skin. I snapped my eyes open and yanked the covers back.

Nothing. Just my bare leg, pale in the moonlight. I breathed out, but the feeling didn’t fade. It was like an itch, deep under the skin, right on my shin. I scratched it, but it only made it worse. I sat up and looked around the room. Clara was snoring softly. Lily was a lump under her blanket. The window was closed. The closet door was shut.

Then I saw it: a small crack in the floorboard near the foot of my bed. I hadn’t noticed it before. It was thin, almost invisible, but dark, as if something had seeped into the wood. The itch grew more intense, almost burning. I pressed my palm against my leg, but the feeling spread, up to my knee, my thigh. I scrambled out of bed and turned on the light.

The floorboard crack seemed wider now, and from it, a faint, sweet smell rose—like rotting fruit. I knelt down, and that’s when I heard it. A whispering, not in my ears, but inside my head, a voice that said, ‘We see you.’

The next night, I refused to sleep. I pulled the mattress off the floor and slept on the bedframe, but the itch returned, this time on my arm. I dug my nails into my skin, drawing blood, but the itch only intensified. It was as if something was inside me, moving just beneath the surface, trying to get out.

I tried to tell my stepfather, but he just laughed and said it was allergies. My mother said I was stressed from school. Clara heard me crying in the night and asked if I was scared of the dark. I said yes, but it was a lie.

That weekend, I decided to fix the floorboard. I got a crowbar and pried it up. Underneath, I found a hollow space, filled with dirt and old rags. But there was also a small, leathery pouch, tied with a string. I opened it. Inside was a lock of hair, a rusted nail, and a scrap of cloth with a symbol burned into it—a circle with a line through it. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it was bad.

I burned it in the fireplace, watching it curl and blacken. The itching stopped for a day. I thought it was over.

But the next night, I woke to find a long, thin scratch on my leg, and the crack in the floorboard had reappeared. This time, it was wider, and the air in the room felt thick, as if someone were breathing beside me. I heard a soft, wet sound, like a tongue licking lips. Clara sat up and said, ‘Who’s there?’ She didn’t see me. She was looking at the corner. I couldn’t see anything, but the hair on my arms stood up.

Then Lily began to cry, a high-pitched wail that echoed. I went to her, and she pointed at the floor. ‘It’s under the bed,’ she said.

I looked under my bed. In the darkness, I saw a pair of eyes, black and glistening, and a mouth full of needle teeth. And I felt the itch again, all over my body, as if the thing was trying to take root inside me.

I grabbed Lily and ran to my parents’ room, but the door was locked. I banged on it, screaming, but no one answered. Behind me, the hallway stretched long and dark. The floorboards creaked. I turned, and the floor near my room was splintering, like something was pushing up from below.

I ran outside, barefoot in the cold mud, into the marsh. I didn’t stop until I reached the road, and I didn’t look back. I spent the night at a neighbor’s, shaking. In the morning, I returned. The house looked normal, but the front door was ajar. Inside, my family was gone. The rooms were empty, as if they had never existed. The floorboards in my room were smooth, no crack. But underneath the bed, I saw a small, dark stain, and I knew with certainty: it was waiting.

I packed what I could and left. I moved across the country, changed my name, tried to forget. But sometimes, at night, I feel a tickle on my leg. And I know it’s not over. It’s never over. The floorboards in that house were just a veil, and I had lifted it. Now, it follows me, patient, silent, waiting for the right moment to crawl back under my skin.