The Last Floorboard

The house on Maple Street had a way of holding its breath. I remember that summer before my sister Eleanor left for college, when I was twelve and my little sister Daisy was eight. We were in the spare room, the one with the cracked wallpaper and the old rocking chair that moved on its own when the wind blew through the attic. The door was ajar, just enough to see the hallway. I heard footsteps, soft and unhurried, like someone walking on tiptoes. I peeked out and saw her—a little girl in a pale blue dress, her hair in two braids, walking slowly toward the stairs. She looked sad, as if she wanted someone to play with. My heart slammed against my ribs. I hadn’t seen an apparition in months, and the suddenness terrified me. I bolted out of the room, past her, down the hall to Eleanor’s room. She was packing, and she calmed me down, her hands steady on my shaking shoulders.

A week later, Mom and I were in the kitchen, making spaghetti for dinner. The picture frame on the sideboard—the one with me in my third-grade school portrait—began to slide across the shelf on its own. It moved an inch, then stopped. Mom and I stared at each other, forks frozen. This had happened before, always with that same photo. We’d thought it was the ghost of the little girl, maybe not wanting to be forgotten. But that day, the frame toppled over and landed face down. Mom picked it up, her face pale. She said, ‘She doesn’t like that picture.’ I couldn’t help but wonder why.

The next day, our handyman, Mr. Gable, and his father-in-law, Old Man Thorne, came to fix the creaky floorboards in the living room. They worked all morning, hammering and prying. At lunch, they stopped and came to the kitchen, their faces sweaty and their eyes uneasy. Mr. Gable said, ‘We saw something run up the stairs. A little girl, maybe seven or eight. She was wearing a pale blue dress.’ Old Man Thorne nodded, his hand trembling as he took off his cap. ‘Only thing is, the stairway’s blocked off with drywall. She went straight through it.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the little girl, how she seemed so sad. I decided to face my fear. I crept out of bed and into the hallway. The house was dark, lit only by the moon through the windows. I walked to the guest room, the one where I’d seen her first. The door was closed, but I felt a cold draft from beneath it. I pushed it open slowly. The room was empty, but the rocking chair was swaying gently, as if someone had just gotten up. I noticed a loose floorboard near the window. I knelt down and pried it up. Beneath it, wrapped in old newspapers, was a small, tarnished locket. I opened it. Inside was a picture of a little girl, maybe five, with the same pale blue dress. On the back, scratched in tiny letters: ‘For Emma.’

I heard a sound behind me. I turned, and there she was—the little girl, standing in the doorway. She pointed at the locket, then at me. Her lips didn’t move, but I felt a whisper in my mind: ‘He took it. He took me.’ Suddenly, the house shook. From the hallway, I heard the sound of footsteps, heavy and angry. The little girl’s face contorted in fear, and she vanished. I clutched the locket and ran back to my room. The next morning, I told Eleanor everything. She looked pale and said, ‘Emma. That was the name of the girl who lived here in the ’50s. She disappeared. They never found her body.’

We searched the house, following a strange intuition. In the basement, behind a wall panel, we found a small, hidden room. Inside were old toys and a child’s dress, stained with dark rust. The floor was hollow, and when we pulled up the planks, we found a child’s skeleton, curled up as if sleeping. The police came. They identified her as Emma, missing since 1959. The man who owned the house then was a carpenter, known for his meticulous work on floors. He had built the hidden room himself. We never found out what happened to him, but Old Man Thorne knew more than he said. He confessed to my mom that his own father was that carpenter, and that he’d seen him do something terrible one night. ‘I was six,’ he said, tears in his eyes. ‘I saw him drag her down there. I never told.’

Emma was finally given a proper burial. After that, the house felt lighter, as if it could breathe. But I kept the locket. Sometimes, at night, I hear faint footsteps, but they are no longer sad. They are the footsteps of a child playing, and I smile. I know she is at peace. But I will never forget the last floorboard—the one that hid a secret for over sixty years, and the little girl who just wanted to be found.