The Marble in the Floorboard

It started with the rain. Not the usual patter against the window, but a rhythmic, heavy drumming that seemed to sync with my heartbeat. I’d just moved into the old Victorian apartment building, drawn by the cheap rent and the ornate moldings. The landlord, a man with rheumy eyes and a perpetual smile that didn’t reach them, had given me a key to the downstairs unit, explaining that the previous tenant, a Mrs. Kowalski, had left in a hurry and asked him to keep an eye on her things. ‘She was a quiet woman,’ he’d said, ‘but she had a boy who visited sometimes. Big fellow, always playing sports.’ I’d nodded, not really listening, already imagining the space as my own.

But the rain that first night was relentless, and I found myself awake at two in the morning, listening. The building was old, and I’d expected creaks and groans. But this was different. It was a distinct sound, a *plink* followed by a rolling, like something hard and round skittering across a wooden floor. Then a pause, and another *plink*. I assumed it was from the empty unit below, maybe a loose shutter or a branch scraping the side. But the sound was too clear, too close. It seemed to come from inside my own bedroom, from the floor itself.

Over the next few weeks, the sounds grew more distinct. I began to hear footsteps, heavy and deliberate, crossing my bedroom floor. Sometimes they stopped at the foot of my bed, and I’d hold my breath, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Then, one evening, I heard a voice. It was muffled, but unmistakably male, and it said, ‘Mom.’ Just that one word, clear as a bell through the floor. I remember jumping, my heart racing. I had no kids, no roommates, and the downstairs was empty. I told myself it was the wind, or a TV from a unit further down, but the word echoed in my mind.

Mrs. Kowalski had left a key with me, ‘in case of emergency,’ the landlord had said. I rationalized that a possible gas leak or water pipe burst constituted an emergency, and I needed to check. The door to her apartment was heavy, painted a dull green, and I fumbled with the key, my hand shaking slightly. It swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the whole building. The air inside was stale, heavy with dust and old furniture. The living room was cluttered with boxes, but I noticed the hardwood floor was bare, polished to a gleam.

I walked through the living room, my footsteps loud in the silence. I noticed a child’s bedroom, the door ajar. Inside, I saw a low bed, a nightstand, and scattered on the floor, a collection of marbles. They were old, some glass with cat’s-eye swirls, others steel. I bent to pick one up, and as I did, I heard a faint rolling sound from above, directly over my head – the spot that corresponded to my bedroom. I looked up at the ceiling, half-expecting to see something moving. But there was nothing.

A cold dread settled in my stomach. I went back to my apartment and stripped the rug from my bedroom floor. The hardwood was beautiful, the same gleaming oak as downstairs. I got down on my hands and knees, running my hands over the boards. Near the corner, I found it: a loose board. I pried it up with a butter knife, my hands trembling. Beneath it, in the dusty gap between the subfloor and the joist, lay a small, rusted metal box. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside, wrapped in a yellowed cloth, was a single, old-fashioned key, and a photograph of a young man with a crooked smile, holding a basketball.

The key was heavy, antique, with a tag attached: ‘Basement Clubhouse.’ I had a basement access key, but this one looked different. I felt a pull, a strange compulsion. I went down to the basement, the key cool in my palm. The basement was a labyrinth of dark corners, cobwebs, and old furniture. At the far end, behind a water heater, I found a heavy oak door with a keyhole that matched the key. It opened easily, revealing a small, windowless room.

Inside, the room was bare, except for a child’s drawing taped to the wall. It showed a stick figure with a big smile, and another, smaller figure, labeled ‘Mom.’ There was a single marble on the floor, and a child’s voice, so faint I thought I imagined it, said, ‘Come play.’ I looked down, and the marble rolled across the floor, stopping at my feet. I heard the sound of a ball bouncing, and the footsteps, heavier now, coming from the room’s ceiling – which was directly beneath my bedroom.

I ran. I flew up the stairs, burst into my apartment, and slammed the door. The sounds stopped, the silence heavy. I stood trembling, the metal key still in my hand. When I finally calmed down, I realized the photo in the basement wasn’t the only one. There was a drawer in the nightstand of that child’s room, and I hadn’t checked it. I went back down, forcing myself, and pulled open the drawer. Inside was a stack of drawings, all of a boy and a woman, and a newspaper clipping with yellowed edges. It was a small article, dated ten years ago, about a boy named Daniel who had died in a house fire. The house address was the one I now lived in.

I dropped the clipping and fled. I moved out that weekend, unable to sleep another night in that apartment. I didn’t tell the landlord why, just said I had a family emergency. But as I packed my car, I saw the new tenant moving in, a young woman with a smile and a child tugging at her sleeve. I felt a chill, knowing what she didn’t. I drove away, trying to shake the image of the marble rolling on the floor, the voice calling ‘Mom.’ But even now, in my new place, in a different city, I sometimes wake at night. I hear a soft *plink* and a rolling, and I know – I just know – that if I looked under my bed, there would be a marble there. And I’d hear a voice, not calling ‘Mom,’ but calling my name.