The Night the Floorboards Listened

I was in the living room of our ground-floor flat in a converted Victorian schoolhouse, watching a late-night documentary. My cat, Miso, was curled on the armchair opposite, purring like a faulty engine. The flat was a warren of creaking corridors, with the living room at the front, the bedroom at the back, and a slim hallway connecting them, past the kitchen and bathroom. It was around 11:30, and my wife had already gone to bed, exhausted from a long shift at the hospital.

Miso suddenly jerked awake, her ears flat against her skull. She rolled onto her back, paws in the air, making that strange, guttural chirp she only made when she wanted her belly rubbed. I smiled and knelt down, running my hand over her soft fur. She was an attention hog, always demanding affection at the most inconvenient times. As I scratched her chin, I heard a noise from the bedroom: a series of heavy thuds, like someone was throwing books onto the floor. My first thought was that my wife had knocked something over, but the sound was too rhythmic, too deliberate. Then I heard footsteps in the hallway, heavy and unhurried, coming toward the living room. I looked up, expecting to see my wife’s tired face, but the doorway remained empty.

The footsteps continued, pacing back and forth just out of sight. My blood ran cold. I called out, ‘Honey, is that you?’ No answer, just the creak of floorboards. Miso hissed and darted under the sofa. I stood up, my heart hammering. The footsteps stopped right in front of the doorway, but nothing was there. Then the door to the bedroom slammed shut, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet flat.

I ran to the bedroom, throwing open the door. My wife was sitting up in bed, white as a sheet. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. I nodded, my throat tight. We searched the flat, checking every room, every closet. Nothing. The front door was bolted, the windows locked. It was 2 AM when we finally crawled back into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, listening to the building settle, every creak making me flinch.

The next night, it was worse. Around 11:30, I was in the living room again, reading. Miso was nowhere to be seen. The footsteps started again, but this time they were accompanied by a low, guttural humming. The sound came from the hallway, then moved into the kitchen. I grabbed the fireplace poker and crept toward the kitchen, my heart pounding. The room was empty, but the faucet was dripping, a steady tap-tap-tap. I shut it off, but as I turned, I saw a reflection in the window: a tall, thin figure standing behind me, its face obscured. I spun around, but there was nothing there.

My wife and I started sleeping in the living room, on the pull-out sofa, because the bedroom felt wrong. The footsteps would come every night, pacing the hallway. We tried recording with our phone, but the audio came back distorted, full of static and faint whispers. We tried calling a priest, but he laughed and said it was just an old building. Then, one night, I was alone in the flat. My wife had gone to her sister’s place. I heard the front door unlock, and the footsteps entered the hallway. I was frozen on the sofa. The footsteps came into the living room, circling me, so close I could feel a cold draft. Then they stopped right beside me. I felt a cold breath on my neck, and a voice, like dead leaves rustling, said, ‘You’re sitting in my chair.’

I never found out what it was. We moved out a week later, but sometimes, at night, I still hear those footsteps in the hallway of our new flat, even though it’s on the third floor. And Miso, she never sleeps in the same room as me anymore.