The Marble Floor’s Arithmetic

The old Villa Rosales stood at the end of a gravel path in the quiet town of Santa Clara, a relic of a bygone era. We were its caretakers, my father, my mother, my four-year-old sister Lina, and myself, Miguel. The owner, a distant aunt, lived in Dubai with her English husband, and they visited only during the summer, leaving us to mind the sprawling, two-story house with its creaking floors and dusty corners.

On the ground floor, the living room flowed into the kitchen, and next to the staircase was a small guest room, never used. The comfort room was tucked beside the kitchen, and behind the house, a separate maid’s quarters and a washroom. Upstairs, three bedrooms lined the hallway: the daughters’ room with its pink curtains, the son’s room with a model airplane hanging from the ceiling, and the master bedroom, untouched as a museum. A larger comfort room at the end of the hall smelled of lavender and old wood.

It was one of those drowsy afternoons when the sun seemed to melt into the furniture. My father sat on the sofa, the television murmuring an old Western. Lina played with her wooden blocks on the cool tiled floor, and I was sketching in my notebook. My mother had excused herself to the ground-floor comfort room, which, for some reason, she preferred over the larger one upstairs.

The clock in the hall had a loud tick. It was 3:17 PM. I remember because the sound of the ticking became unsettling, each tick like a small hammer on my eardrums. I looked at my sister. She had stopped playing and was staring at the floor near the entrance to the guest room.

‘What is it, Lina?’ I asked.

She didn’t answer, just pointed at a spot on the tiles. The floor was made of gray and white marble squares, laid in a checkerboard pattern. At the precise spot she indicated, the pattern seemed off. One tile was a different shade, almost imperceptible, like a darker gray. I dismissed it as a trick of the light.

Dad glanced over, annoyed. ‘Don’t scare your sister, Miguel.’

But Lina kept her eyes fixed on the tile. ‘It’s counting,’ she said.

‘What’s counting?’ I asked.

‘The floor,’ she whispered. ‘It counts us.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. I had no idea where she got such an idea. Mom, returning from the bathroom, noticed our tense faces. She asked what was wrong, and I shrugged it off. Lina went back to her blocks, but I noticed she kept glancing at the floor.

That evening, dinner was quiet. Lina refused to sit at the table, insisting on a chair that was higher, as if she wanted to be above the ground. Mom tried to coax her, but Lina simply said, ‘The floor will know my name.’

Dad laughed it off, but I saw him share a worried look with Mom. After dinner, I helped clear the dishes. As I walked to the kitchen, I counted my steps unconsciously: seven steps from the living room to the kitchen threshold. And then I froze. On the threshold, just at the edge of the kitchen, I saw a faint, darker tile, just like the one Lina pointed at.

I mentioned it to my father, who came to look. He knelt, tracing the tile’s edge. ‘This floor was laid by a local mason years ago. It’s probably just a batch difference.’ I nodded, but the tile seemed to look back, like a dark eye in the pattern.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. At around 2 AM, I got up for water. As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard a soft tapping from below. It was rhythmic, like a finger tapping on glass. I tiptoed down, staying close to the wall.

The living room was dark, but the moonlight cast patterns through the windows. The tapping came from the floor near the guest room. I crept closer and saw a small, dark shape moving in the shadows. It was Lina, crouched on the floor, tapping her finger on the darker tile.

‘Lina?’ I whispered.

She looked up, her eyes wide and glassy. ‘It’s my turn, Miguel. It said it’s my turn.’

I grabbed her hand and pulled her up. ‘Come back to bed. You’re dreaming.’

She came reluctantly, and I tucked her in. She gripped my hand and said, ‘Don’t let it count the others.’

The next morning, I told my parents everything. They exchanged nervous glances, and Dad said, ‘It’s just a child’s imagination. Nothing more.’ But I caught him measuring the distance between the tiles in the hall.

Days passed, but Lina grew more disturbed. She would sit on the couch, refusing to touch the floor, even to go to the bathroom. She started counting aloud at odd times: ‘One, two, three…’ then she’d stop, as if listening to something.

One evening, Dad was cleaning the living room floor with a mop. As he wiped the darker tile, the mop caught the edge, and the tile lifted slightly. He knelt, and pulled it up. Beneath it was a small, metal box, rusted and locked.

He pried it open with a knife. Inside, there was a piece of parchment, yellowed with age, covered in rows of numbers. It looked like a tally, with names scratched out. Among the names, I could make out: ‘Renato’, ‘Clara’, ‘Esteban’. And at the bottom, fresh, as if recently carved: ‘Lina’.

Dad’s face went pale. He dropped the box, and the tile clattered back into place. ‘It’s a prank,’ he said, but his hands shook.

That night, I stood over Lina’s bed. She was sleeping, but her lips were moving, and she was counting again. I knelt beside her, and she opened her eyes. ‘I’m next, Miguel. The floor wants me to join the count.’

I held her, trembling. ‘No, I won’t let it.’

She smiled, a sad smile. ‘You can’t stop it. The floor knows the arithmetic.’

Then she closed her eyes, and in the morning, she was gone. Her bed was empty, the sheets cold. We searched the house, screaming her name. The only trace was a single darker tile, newly appeared in the center of the living room floor.

We moved out that week, unable to stay in that house. The owner, upon hearing our story, said that the house had a history of strange events, but she never revealed more. To this day, I avoid checkered floors. And every time I see a marble floor, I cannot help but count the tiles.

Just yesterday, I was in a hotel. The floor was a perfect grid of white and black. As I walked to the elevator, my foot momentarily touched a tile that felt off, colder than the others. I glanced down, and in the reflection, I could have sworn I saw the outline of a small hand pressed against the tile, as if reaching up.

And from the corner, I heard a faint whisper, ‘Miguel, I’m still counting.’

But that is impossible. Isn’t it? I have not since set foot in that hotel, but I know the count continues. Somewhere, in that old Villa Rosales, a floor is waiting for the next number. And I fear that, one day, I will find my name etched underneath.