The Linoleum Map

The house on Hemlock Lane had a linoleum floor in the kitchen that was peeling up in the corner, revealing a pattern of faded brown and ochre diamonds that looked like some ancient, forgotten map. I was eleven that summer, and my mother had moved us there to be closer to her new job at the cannery, a sprawling complex that smelled of brine and metal. My father had left us the year before, and the house felt like a fresh start, even if it was old and creaky, with a smell of damp plaster and old wood.

I didn’t mind being alone. School was out, and my mother worked double shifts. My only companion was a scruffy orange cat I named Marmalade, who spent most of his time sunning himself on the porch. But there was something about that linoleum. Whenever I was in the kitchen, I’d find myself staring at it, tracing the pattern with my eyes. It was like a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

One afternoon, I was sitting on the floor, eating a peanut butter sandwich, when Marmalade padded over and started scratching at the peeled corner. He was persistent, digging his claws into the floor, and I shooed him away. But he kept coming back, meowing insistently. I finally got down on my hands and knees to see what he was after.

Under the peeled linoleum, there was a piece of paper. It was yellowed and brittle, folded into a tight square. I carefully pried it out, my heart thumping. The paper was coated in a thin layer of dust and grime, but I could make out handwriting, faded but legible. It was a letter, dated August 1967.

It was written by a girl named Eleanor. She was about my age, and she described the house, the very same house, and how she hated the linoleum because it reminded her of the time her father had laid it, and how he would sometimes get angry and drink. But the letter was mostly about a hiding place. She said there was a loose floorboard under my bed, and if I lifted it, I’d find a tin box. She said she had hidden something precious there, something she couldn’t take with her when they moved.

I ran to my room, my heart racing. I dropped to my knees and felt under the bed. Sure enough, there was a board that wiggled. I pried it up with my fingers, and there, nestled in the dusty cavity, was a small, rusted tin box. It was shaped like a book, with a worn illustration of a lighthouse on the front. I carried it to the kitchen table and pried the lid open.

Inside was a collection of objects: a smooth, grey stone, a bird’s feather, a dried flower, and a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it. It was a drawing. It showed a stick figure girl standing in a field, with a big sun in the corner. In the background, there was a dark house with a single window glowing. On the back, in the same handwriting, was a list of names, each with dates next to them.

I recognized two of the dates: they were birthdays. One was mine, and the other was my mother’s. I felt a chill run down my spine. How could this girl from decades ago know my birthday? I looked at the drawing again, and I noticed something I’d missed: the girl in the field had a cat beside her, an orange cat. My cat. The coincidence was too much. I was spooked, but also fascinated. I decided to keep the tin box hidden, under my bed, and not tell anyone, not even my mother.

That night, I had a dream. I was in a field, like the one in the drawing, but it was dusk, and the sky was bruised purple. I walked towards the house, which loomed ahead, dark and silent. I pushed open the front door, and inside, the kitchen was just as I knew it, but the linoleum was new, and there was a smell of cooking. A woman with a worn face, Eleanor’s mother, was standing at the stove, stirring a pot, but when she turned, her eyes were hollow, and she said in a raspy voice, ‘She’s been waiting for you.’ Then she pointed to a door I had never seen before, a door that appeared to be sealed shut.

I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding. The dream felt too real. And as I lay there, I heard a sound, a faint scraping, coming from under my bed. I switched on the lamp and peered down, but there was nothing. Just the tin box, which I had returned to its hiding place. I lifted the board again, and the box was there, but something was different. The lid was slightly ajar, as if something had nudged it. Inside, the drawing was no longer folded. It was laid out flat, and on the back, a new name had been added with a date, not in faded ink, but in a fresh, dark hand. The name was mine.

The date was today.

I wanted to call my mother, but I remembered that she would be at work for another six hours. I was alone. Panic welled up inside me, but I forced myself to think. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe I had missed that drawing before. But I knew I hadn’t. I had examined every inch of that paper. I had felt the faint pencil indentations.

I decided to get rid of the box. I ran to the backyard and dug a hole behind the old apple tree, as deep as I could. I threw the tin box in, covered it with dirt, and stamped it down. I went back inside, locked the doors, and huddled on the couch with Marmalade, trying to calm my nerves. But as evening fell, I felt an overwhelming urge to go to the window. I looked out, and there, under the apple tree, the ground was disturbed. A small, rusted tin box sat atop the overturned soil, gleaming faintly in the last light.

I must have screamed, because my throat felt raw. I ran to my room, grabbed the board from under my bed, and lay it flat on the floor. I begged whatever was happening to stop. I even prayed, even though we never went to church.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the corner of my room, hugging my knees, with Marmalade on my lap. At 3:00 AM, the clock stopped. The room grew cold, and I felt a presence, a weight in the air. I heard a voice, soft but clear, as if right next to my ear: ‘You found my treasure. Now I can leave.’

I lost consciousness.

The next thing I knew, it was morning, and my mother was shaking me, asking why I was sleeping on the floor. I tried to explain, but the words came out jumbled. She thought I had a nightmare and made me some breakfast. I didn’t tell her about the letter, or the drawing, or the box. I couldn’t. I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me.

Months passed. We moved away, to a different town, a different house. I tried to put the strange events behind me. But sometimes, at night, I would wake up and see a shadowy figure standing at the foot of my bed, a girl in a faded dress, with hollow eyes. She would just stare at me, and then fade away.

I never found out who Eleanor was, or why she chose me. But years later, when I was in high school, I went to the local library to do research on the old house. I found a newspaper article from 1967. It was a brief piece about a family that had moved out suddenly, leaving most of their belongings behind. The mother was quoted as saying she feared the house had a ‘bad spirit.’ The daughter, Eleanor, had been found in the woods, disoriented, claiming she had seen a girl under her bed.

I felt a chill when I read that, because I knew, somehow, that Eleanor had been just like me. And now, I wonder if she passed something on to me, a burden that I would carry forever. I still see the girl sometimes, but she doesn’t terrify me anymore. She just watches, like a silent guardian. And sometimes, when I look at the peeling linoleum in my own kitchen, I think I see that faded map, and I know that some places hold secrets deeper than we can ever understand.