The Marble Floor’s Memory

During my sophomore year at the university, my parents enrolled me in St. Brendan’s Hall, a newly converted dormitory that had once been a convent for the Sisters of the Sorrowful Mother. The building was a brutalist concrete monolith, its five floors connected by a central staircase that echoed with every footstep. The ground floor housed the refectory, a small chapel that smelled of old incense, and a reception desk manned by a perpetually grim-faced porter. The dorm rooms, each with four iron-framed beds, were identical: a study desk, a cabinet, a washbasin, and a cramped bathroom. The marble floors, imported from Italy, were said to be the pride of the renovation, but they held a strange chill even in the tropical heat.

My room on the third floor was shared with three other boys, but on that particular afternoon, I was alone. The other three were either in class or asleep in the library. I had just returned from a long day of lectures, carrying a stack of comic books I had bought from a second-hand shop near the campus. The moment I stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind me with a firmness that seemed to seal me in. I tossed my bag on the bed and flopped down, flipping open an issue of ‘The Shadow of the Hangman.’ The room was quiet, save for the hum of the fluorescent light above.

As I read, I became aware of a subtle sound, like distant footsteps, soft and deliberate. I paused, listening, but it faded. I shrugged and returned to my comic. Then, a few minutes later, I heard it again—this time closer, as if someone was walking in the corridor outside. But there was no one. The corridor was empty. I got up and opened the door, peering out. The long hallway stretched before me, lit by occasional wall sconces. Nothing moved.

I closed the door and sat back down, but the unease lingered. I noticed that the marble floor under my desk had a faint, rust-colored stain that I hadn’t seen before, shaped oddly like a handprint. I crouched to examine it. The stain seemed to pulse, but it was just a trick of the light. I touched it; it was cool and smooth. As I straightened, I felt a draft, and the temperature dropped noticeably.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The other boys snored in their bunks, but I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, save for the glowing red eye of the smoke detector. At around 2 a.m., I heard the same footsteps, but this time they were inside the room. I could hear the soft padding of bare feet on the marble, circling my bed. I held my breath, my heart pounding. The footsteps stopped at the foot of my bed, and I felt a pressure on the mattress, as if someone was sitting there. I dared to look, but saw nothing.

Then came a whisper, so faint it was almost a thought: ‘You are sitting on my floor.’ I sat bolt upright, but the room was empty. The other boys were asleep.

Days passed, and the incidents increased. I began to see a flicker in my peripheral vision—a shadow that vanished when I turned. My study lamp would flicker, and once, my textbook slid off the desk on its own. I confided in my roommate, Marcus, who laughed it off, saying I was just stressed. But one evening, as we were alone, Marcus pointed to the floor and asked, ‘Why is there a wet spot there?’ I looked; there was a perfect circle of water near the door, though the floor had been dry moments before.

I decided to investigate the building’s history. The porter, old Mr. Albright, was reticent but eventually admitted that the convent had been built over an old colonial cemetery. ‘They moved the bones,’ he said, ‘but some say they missed a few.’ He also mentioned that a novice nun had died mysteriously during the construction of the original convent, and her body was never found. ‘Some say she’s still here, trying to claim the place back.’

That night, I woke to find myself standing in the center of the room, barefoot on the cold marble. I had no memory of getting out of bed. My feet were freezing, and the floor was slick with a thin layer of water. Above me, the ceiling light flickered, and in the intermittent darkness, I saw the outline of a woman in a habit, her face obscured, her hand reaching toward me. She pointed at the floor, and I looked down. The handprint stain had grown, now covering most of the floor, and it was fresh, like wet paint.

The next morning, I went to the porter and demanded to know more. He told me that the marble floor of my room had been the very spot where the nun’s body was discovered, wedged between the floor and the concrete ceiling during the renovations. They had tried to remove the stain, but it kept reappearing. ‘You’re the first to stay in that room since,’ he said, ‘and the first to complain.’

I moved to another room that day, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that I had taken something with me. At night, in my new room, I would still hear the footsteps, and sometimes, I would feel a cold hand on my ankle. The handprint stain appeared on the bottom of my new desk, in a different shape—a finger pointing upward, as if indicating the floor above.

A week later, I was studying in the chapel when I saw a faint figure kneel in the front pew. It was the nun. She turned her head, and though her face was a void, I felt her gaze. She pointed to the floor, and I noticed that the marble tiles in the chapel were the same as in my old room. On the tile beneath her, there was a fresh handprint, still wet.

I left the dormitory the following semester, but I never forgot the Marble Floor’s Memory. Whenever I walk on a polished floor, I check for spots—and I always find one, watching me, waiting for me to sit down again.