The Knob Under the Floorboard

It was the first time I’d ever put pen to paper about what happened, and even now, months later, my hands tremble as I type. I’m a 27-year-old graphic designer, living alone in a creaky Victorian flat in Manchester, above a shuttered bakery that’s been closed for as long as I’ve been here. The flat has high ceilings, original sash windows, and a narrow staircase that seems to whine with every footfall. My bedroom is at the top, overlooking the grimy backs of other buildings, and the bathroom is directly beneath it, separated by a single layer of plasterboard and lath.

I’d moved in eight months ago, fresh from a breakup, seeking solitude. The flat was cheap because it was rundown, but I liked the character. I’d spent weeks painting walls, laying rugs, and hanging fairy lights to make it warm. My bedroom still had the original floorboards, scuffed and groaning, with a large, brownish knot near the center that I’d always meant to fill but never got around to. The bathroom below had a pull-chain toilet, the kind with a metal handle that clanks, and a light fixture with a string. When anyone pulled that string, I could hear it distinctly through the floor—a sharp click, followed by a faint ratchet as the cord retracted. It was the same when anyone flushed or opened the medicine cabinet. The flat was small, so I could hear everything: the hum of the fridge, the drip of the faucet, even the scuttle of mice in the walls.

This happened in early autumn, when dusk fell like a dirty curtain over the city. My sister, who lived nearby, had taken my niece for the weekend, and I had the flat to myself. I remember it was a Thursday, and I’d come home from work, ordered a takeaway, and settled into bed with my laptop to watch a film. The light was fading, and I hadn’t bothered to turn on the main lamp; the glow from my screen was enough. I was comfortable, a mug of tea in hand, when I heard it: a faint click from downstairs. It was the distinctive sound of the bathroom light string being pulled.

I paused the film, ears straining. The flat was silent except for the distant hum of the city. I glanced at the clock—9:47 PM. My sister and niece were definitely gone. I’d locked the door myself. I shrugged, chalking it up to the house settling, and resumed my film. But five minutes later, I heard it again: click. Then the sound of the light switch toggling, that familiar snap. And then, blessedly, nothing. I told myself it was just the old wiring, a faulty connection, but a knot of unease tightened in my stomach.

I got up, my bare feet padding across the cold floorboards, and headed to the bathroom. The door was closed, but I pushed it open to find the light was off. The string hung limply from the ceiling box. I tried the switch myself: click, and the light burst on. I flicked it off and returned to bed, but I left the bathroom door open a crack, an inexplicable gesture of defiance.

The second time, I was in the kitchen making toast. It was around 10:30 PM, and I’d gotten hungry. As I waited for the bread to brown, I heard it again: click. This time, a distinct rattling, as if the chain had caught on something. I set down the butter knife and crept to the hallway, peering down the stairs. The bathroom door was open, but the light was off. And then I saw something that made my blood run cold: the light string was moving. It swayed gently, as if just released, but there was no breeze in the house. The air was still, heavy with the scent of dust and old wood.

I marched down, my heart hammering. I switched on the hallway light, flooding the space with yellowed glare. The bathroom was empty, of course. The string hung motionless now. I pulled it myself: click, light on. Click, light off. I stood there for a long minute, trying to reason with myself. It was an old house, perhaps the cord had something to do with the heating pipes? But I didn’t believe it. I went back to the kitchen, my toast forgotten, and sat at the table, staring at nothing.

That night, I had trouble sleeping. I lay in bed, listening to the floorboards settle, and I swear I heard faint footsteps in the bathroom below—soft, almost like a child’s bare feet on the tile. But my niece was miles away. I pulled my duvet up to my chin and whispered to the dark, ‘You’re not real. You’re not here.’ And then, as if in response, the light string clicked once more.

I didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, I inspected the bathroom thoroughly. There was no sign of intrusion—no broken locks, no footprints, nothing. I called my sister, and she laughed, saying I was getting paranoid in my old age. But she didn’t know. They didn’t know.

Over the following weeks, the occurrences escalated. I’d hear the string being pulled multiple times a day, always when I was alone. Once, I came home to find the bathroom light on, the string trembling. I started to dread going in there. I began leaving the light on at all times, so it wouldn’t have to be switched. But the string still moved. I’d be in the living room, and I’d hear that click, and then the sound of water running—a thin trickle, as if someone was washing their hands. But when I’d rush in, the sink would be dry.

I stopped using the bathroom at night, holding it until morning, when the sun made the house feel less menacing. I even considered moving, but I couldn’t afford to break my lease. So I lived in fear, jumping at every creak.

One evening, about a month in, I decided to confront it. I was in the hallway, and I heard the click, followed by the distinctive sound of the string being pulled multiple times in rapid succession—click, click, click—as if someone was trying to summon the light with increasing urgency. My heart was racing, but I grabbed the doorframe and shoved the bathroom door open. The string was swinging wildly, as if someone had just let go. And then, in the silence, I heard a whisper. It was so faint, like a breath against my ear: ‘Please.’

I staggered back, my mind screaming. I grabbed the string myself and yanked it hard, flooding the room with harsh light. ‘Who’s there?’ I cried. Nothing. Just the drip of a faucet I hadn’t turned on.

That’s when I noticed the floorboard in my bedroom. The one with the large knot. I’d never paid it much attention, but now, as I stood in the doorway, I saw that it was slightly raised, as if something was underneath. I knelt, heart pounding, and hooked my fingers under the board. It came up easily—too easily, as if it had been pried before. And there, in the dusty cavity, lay a photograph. It was old, sepia-toned, of a little girl in a Victorian dress, standing in front of the very house—but the street was different, the houses more spaced. On the back, handwritten in faded ink, was a name: ‘Eleanor, aged 5. Died 1901.’

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft. I slammed the floorboard down and fled the flat, staying with my sister for a week. When I returned, the photo was gone. The floorboard was flush again, as if it had never been disturbed. But the string still clicks, even now, as I write this. I’ve stopped trying to explain it. I just pray it’s only a memory, and not a summons.

These days, I keep the bathroom light on 24/7, and I’ve taped the string to the ceiling so it can’t move. But last night, I heard a click from the bathroom, and I went to check. The tape was gone, and the string was swaying. And under my floor, in the silence, I thought I heard a child humming a tune I’ve never known. I’m packing my bags. I’m leaving this flat. But I can’t shake the feeling that wherever I go, that string will follow—just a click away, waiting to be pulled again.