The Lay of the Fallen Planks

I’m Cillian, and I’ve lived in my family’s cottage on the edge of Kilfenora, County Clare, for the past 26 years. The place is old, damp, and creaks like a ship in a gale, but I’ve grown accustomed to its quirks—the way the back door sometimes unlatches on its own, or the smell of turf smoke from a fire that hasn’t been lit in decades. My mother says it’s just the wind, but I’ve lived here long enough to know the difference between a draft and something breathing down my neck.

Most nights, I just lie in bed and listen to the floorboards settle, to the mice scurrying in the walls. I’ve learned to ignore the occasional whisper of my name or the soft footfalls in the hallway. But last Tuesday, I decided to renovate my bedroom. I tore up the old, warped oak planks that had been there since before I was born, and replaced them with a smooth, modern pine floor. I was proud of my work, even though I’d left the broken pieces of the old wood stacked in the corner, too lazy to haul them out to the shed.

That night, I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep on the new floor without a mattress, so I laid it out in the middle of the room, the fresh smell of varnish mixing with the mustiness of the old house. I switched off the lamp, and the room fell into darkness, the only light a sliver of moon through the curtains. I was just drifting off when I heard it—a soft scraping, like nails on wood, coming from the corner where I’d piled the old planks. I froze, my heart hammering, as the sound grew louder, more deliberate. It was the sound of wood being dragged across the floor, back and forth, as if someone were testing the new surface.

I tried to move, but my body was paralyzed, as it had been many times before. I felt the familiar weight of sleep paralysis pressing down on me, but this time it was different. I could feel the floor vibrating beneath me, and the scraping intensified, moving closer. My eyes, though I could barely open them, strained to see in the dark. And then I saw him—a tall, gaunt figure crouched over the pile of old wood, his fingers long and pale, stroking each plank like a lover’s face. He picked one up and held it to his ear, as if listening to it, then he began to move it across the floor, up and down, in a slow, rhythmic motion.

I wanted to scream, but my throat was closed. The figure turned its head toward me, and in the dim light, I saw its face—no eyes, just hollow sockets, and a mouth stretched into a silent grin. It placed the plank down gently and crawled toward me, its joints cracking like snapping twigs. It stopped inches from my face, and I could smell the rot of old wood and something else, something sickly sweet. It reached out a hand, and I felt a cold finger trace the outline of my jaw, then it leaned down and whispered, “You’ve taken my bed away.”

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke, the sun was streaming through the window, and the pile of old wood was gone. I thought it had been a nightmare, but then I saw the scratches on the floor—deep, parallel gouges, like nails dragged across the pine. I’ve since tried to leave the room, but every time I step onto the new floor, I feel a cold draft rising from between the planks, and I hear that scraping sound, as if the old wood is still there, being moved up and down, up and down, just beneath the surface, waiting for me to lie down one last time.