The Narra Floor

It was the summer of 1997, and our house in the heart of Davao City was a relic among modern neighbors. Our two-story wooden structure, built from narra wood, stood stubbornly while others had polished concrete and bright paint. My lola used to say that the house was older than her, and she was pushing eighty then. We were the last wooden house on the street, and as a kid, I didn’t care much about that. I just knew that the floorboards creaked in a certain way, and the stairs had a particular groan that my father said was just the wood settling. But after that summer, I came to know that the house was not just settling—it was remembering.

My cousin Andres came to stay with us that year. He was a few years older, with a rebellious streak that made me admire him. He’d spend hours exploring the house, especially the attic, which I avoided because of the thick dust and the piles of old furniture. One afternoon, he came down with a triumphant grin, holding a tiny, rusted key. ‘Found this up there,’ he said. ‘Bet there’s a secret door or something.’ I followed him back up, my heart thumping. He showed me a small, almost hidden panel in the attic wall, sealed with a lock that matched the key. My hands shook as he turned it, and the panel swung open, revealing a dark, narrow passage that sloped downward.

We crept inside with a flashlight. The passage was lined with what looked like old newspapers, but they were so brittle and yellowed that they crumbled at a touch. It led to a small, windowless room under the house, the ceiling so low we had to crouch. In the corner was a wooden chest, also locked, and the same key opened it. Inside, we found not treasures but a bundle of letters, tied with a faded ribbon. They were written in a shaky, spidery script, dated from the 1940s. I couldn’t read them all, but one phrase stood out: ‘The floor remembers what it has seen.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house creaked more than usual, as if it were alive. I lay in bed, listening to the groans, when I heard a rhythmic tapping from below—like footsteps on the wooden floor, but measured and slow. I thought it was Andres, but when I went to check, he was sound asleep in his room. The tapping continued, coming from the empty living room. I crept to the top of the stairs and looked down. The moonlight streaming through the window cast long shadows, and I saw it—a faint, translucent figure of a woman in a long dress, gliding across the floor. She paused at the spot where I’d tripped earlier that day, and I swear she looked up at me. But her face was smooth, featureless.

I ran back to my room and buried my head under the pillow. The tapping stopped after a while, but I didn’t sleep. The next morning, I told Andres, and he laughed, calling me a coward. But I noticed his face was pale, and he kept glancing at the floor. Over the next weeks, strange things happened. Objects moved on their own. A glass of water would slide across the table and shatter. And the tapping became a nightly occurrence, growing more insistent. My mother started to complain about the noises, but my father dismissed them as just the old house settling. But I knew better.

One night, I worked up the courage to follow the sounds. I crept downstairs and saw the woman again. This time, she was different—her face was still blank, but she pointed to a specific floorboard near the fireplace. I backed away, but she didn’t move. She just kept pointing. I decided to pry the board up with a crowbar I had found. Beneath it, there was a small hollow, and inside lay a tarnished locket. I opened it to find a faded photograph of a woman who looked exactly like the ghost, but with features. She was beautiful, with dark hair and sad eyes.

The moment I touched the locket, the house let out a low, guttural groan, and the temperature plummeted. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice whispered in my ear, ‘You should not have taken that.’ I spun around, but there was no one there. The locket felt hot in my hand, then cold. I tried to put it back, but the floorboard wouldn’t budge. I ran to my room, clutching the locket, and hid it under my mattress. That night, I dreamed of a woman weeping, and when I woke, I found the locket on my pillow, open, with the photo missing.

The next day, we moved out. My father had found a new job in Manila, and we left with just a few suitcases. I never told anyone about the locket—I left it under the mattress. But as we drove away, I saw a figure standing at the upstairs window, and it had a face now, and it was smiling. That image has never left me. Even now, when I walk on any wooden floor, I listen for the creaks, wondering if they are just the wood, or something else. The narra floor in that old house knew something, and I fear it will never forget. And now, every Halloween, I find myself tapping my foot three times, and I swear, sometimes, I hear an answering tap from below.