The Night the Floorboards Sang

In the autumn of 2019, I moved into a century-old farmhouse on the outskirts of a town that had more cornfields than people. The house had a certain charm—warped floorboards, a creaky staircase, and a porch that groaned in the wind. I was a city boy, but I needed the quiet to write my novel. The first month was peaceful. The only sounds were the rustling leaves and the distant hum of a tractor.

But then, the last Tuesday of October, I was sprawled on my bed reading a dog-eared Stephen King novel. The ceiling light flickered, and I felt a distinct thump against the bedframe, as if something heavy had bumped it from underneath. I sat up, my heart doing a quick tap dance. I laughed it off—old houses settle, pipes groan. I went back to reading.

Later that night, I turned off the lamp, plunging the room into absolute darkness. The moon was a sliver, and the curtains blocked any stray light. Just as I was drifting off, the mattress compressed as if a massive weight had dropped onto the foot of the bed. My legs bounced, and I yelped, scrambling for the lamp. The room was empty. I lay there, breath ragged, listening to the silence. After an hour, I retreated to the living room couch, the television buzzing with static to keep me company.

The next morning, I mentioned it to my neighbor, an old farmer named Gus. He spat tobacco juice and laughed, saying, ‘You writers and your imagination. Probably a raccoon in the attic.’ But his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.

The following night, I decided to leave the hallway light on, its glow spilling into my room like a timid promise. At 3:30 AM, the bed began to shake violently, as if someone was gripping the frame and rattling it with supernatural strength. I tumbled to the floor, and as I looked up, I saw the door swing shut with a soft click. I didn’t sleep that night, and by dawn, I had convinced myself it was a faulty heater.

But I couldn’t ignore the growing sense that I wasn’t alone. I started leaving the light on every night, and the disturbances became more brazen. One evening, I was in the kitchen when I heard a crash from the bedroom. I rushed in to find the mattress flipped against the wall. On the bare box spring, there was a pattern of fresh scratches, like claw marks, but they formed a crude word: ‘LEAVE.’

A week later, I woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway. They were slow, deliberate, and impossibly loud. I grabbed a baseball bat and swung the door open. The hallway was empty, but the floorboards were warped, as if something huge had been pacing there. I noticed a musty smell, like damp earth and rotting leaves.

I called Gus, telling him I needed to borrow his truck to move out. He listened, his face growing pale, and then he confessed, ‘This house has a history. A farmer named Jacob Harker lived here in the 1920s. He was a recluse, probably mad. One night, he killed his wife and buried her in the basement. They say he never left. He still walks the halls, looking for her.’

I packed frantically that night, throwing clothes into duffel bags. As I reached for my laptop, the lights flickered and died. I fumbled for my phone’s flashlight, and the beam caught a figure standing at the end of the hallway—a tall, gaunt man in a dusty suit, his face half-rotted, his eyes black holes. He pointed a long finger at the floor, and the floorboards began to sing, a low, mournful creak that sounded like a lullaby.

I ran. I didn’t stop until I was on Gus’s porch, pounding on his door. He let me in, and I spent the night on his couch, shivering. The next morning, I drove away, never looking back.

But even now, in my new apartment in the city, I hear the floorboards sometimes. They sing when I’m alone, a soft, rhythmic creak, as if something is pacing in the hallway just outside my door. And I know that Harker found someone new to haunt. Maybe me. Maybe you.