The Laminate Floor’s Last Step

I was five, maybe six, when the house on Maple Street taught me that some things don’t stay buried. My parents had bought the old Victorian that autumn, and the basement, with its dirt floor and stone walls, was the one place they wanted to make habitable. They’d been laying laminate wood flooring down there, the kind that clicks together like puzzle pieces. I remember the smell of sawdust and the heavy thump of the mallet as Dad hammered the planks into place.

That night, after a long day of their renovation work, Mom had tucked me into my new room, which was at the top of the stairs, right across from the bathroom. The room still smelled of fresh paint, and the window rattled slightly in the wind. I was almost asleep, my mind drifting to the image of the floor downstairs, when I felt a hand press firmly on my shoulder. It was warm, and the pressure was unmistakable. I turned, expecting to see one of my parents or maybe the family cat, but there was nothing. I looked down at the floor, thinking maybe the old dog, Barney, had nudged me with his nose, but he was down in the basement with my parents, his tail wagging as he supervised their work.

I froze. The room was empty. The door was still open a crack, but I could see the hallway, and it was bare. My heart hammered in my chest, and I scrambled out of bed, my small legs carrying me as fast as they could to the basement stairs. I pounded down the steps, my socked feet slipping on the cold concrete, and burst into the basement. My parents were there, kneeling on the newly laid floor, and Barney was sniffing at the corners. I was breathless, my words tumbling out in a jumble: “Someone touched my shoulder! In my room!” They exchanged a glance, and Dad came over, kneading my shoulder with his calloused hand. “It was just your imagination, kiddo. Nothing to worry about.” Mom took me back upstairs, tucked me in again, and left the door ajar. I lay awake, listening to the thumps and the creaks of the house settling, and eventually, sleep took me.

But that was just the beginning. Over the next few years, the house seemed to develop a personality of its own. I’d catch glimpses of movement out of the corner of my eye, a figure that would vanish when I turned to look. I’d hear footsteps in the hallway at night, soft and steady, pausing outside my door. Sometimes, in the basement, I’d see the laminate planks shift slightly, as if someone was standing on them, though no one was there. My parents dismissed it as old house sounds, my imagination, a child’s overactive mind. But I knew what I felt—that hand on my shoulder—and I knew it wasn’t my imagination.

When I was ten, we moved away to a newer house, a split-level with a finished basement. I was relieved to leave, but the feeling of being watched followed me. In the new house, it was stronger. I’d feel eyes on the back of my neck while I did my homework. I’d see a shadow darting in the hallway, and the footsteps would pad along the corridor at night, stopping at my door. One evening, I was in the basement—my new bedroom down there—and I heard the floor creak right behind me. I spun around, and there was nothing, but on the carpet, I saw a faint indentation, as if a heavy weight had just been lifted.

I started researching the history of our old house, and I found out that a man had died in the basement decades ago. He was a handyman, and he’d been laying flooring when he had a heart attack. The person who found him said he was curled up on the floor, as if he’d been clutching at his chest. They never fixed the floor properly; they just put new carpet over the old.

That’s when it clicked. The hand on my shoulder might have been him, trying to get my attention. The footsteps, the watched feeling—it was him, following me to my new home, attached to me somehow. Maybe when I ran down to the basement that night, I disturbed him. Maybe he mistook me for someone he could communicate with.

Now, every night, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the hand to touch my shoulder again. And I wonder if, when I finally turn, I’ll see the outline of a man in the darkness, his hand reaching out, not to scare me, but to ask for the dignity he never got. The floor in my room has a slight give in the corner, and I never step there. I’ve learned to live with the creaks and the shadows, but I’ll never forget that first touch, the one that set everything in motion.

Last night, as I was drifting off, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I didn’t turn. I just whispered, “I know you’re there. What do you want?” And in the silence, I heard a faint, rustling sound, like the scraping of laminate planks, and then a voice, so low I almost missed it: “Help me finish the floor.” I’ve been uneasy ever since. This morning, I went to the basement of our new house, and in the corner, there was a stack of laminate flooring, brand new, with a note in my father’s handwriting: “For the handyman. He never got to finish.” I don’t know how the note got there, but I feel his presence more strongly now. Maybe my story isn’t about a haunting, but about a man trying to find peace. And I might be the only one who can give it to him, if I ever get the courage to lay that final plank.