The Nursery Floorboards

Elena and Marcus had bought the old farmhouse on the edge of the fen, three miles from the nearest village, because it was quiet and cheap. The house was new, just four years old, but it sat at the end of a lane that had once led to a Victorian asylum, now converted into a care home for the elderly. Beyond the lane, a ruined chapel stood with its graveyard sloping toward the marsh. The evening air was thick with the smell of peat and wildflowers, and the silence was so complete that Elena swore she could hear the stars.

Their daughter, Isobel, was born in the autumn, a healthy, rosy-cheeked child who slept through the night from the start. By spring, they moved her into the nursery, a room with a large window that faced the old asylum. The nursery was above the sitting room, and the floorboards were new, pale pine, sanded smooth and varnished. At first, all was well. Elena would put Isobel down at half past seven, and the baby would drift off without a fuss, her breath a gentle rhythm over the baby monitor.

It was May when the footsteps began. Elena and Marcus were in the sitting room, watching a film, when they heard a slow, deliberate tread above them. The steps were heavy, like a large person walking heel-to-toe, measuring the length of the room. Marcus froze, his hand on Elena’s arm. ‘Someone’s upstairs,’ he whispered. He grabbed the torch from the drawer and crept up the stairs, his heart a drum in his chest. But the nursery was empty, Isobel sleeping peacefully, and the room was still. Marcus chalked it up to the house settling, a trick of the wind. Elena wasn’t convinced.

The footsteps returned the next night, and the night after that. They came at the same time, just after they’d settled on the sofa. Elena began to dread that hour. She would sit rigid, listening to the slow, rhythmic pace above, counting the seconds between steps. One night, she decided to stay in the nursery herself, sitting in the rocking chair, watching Isobel. The footsteps did not come. But when she went downstairs again, they started up almost immediately, as if they had been waiting for her to leave.

One evening, Elena grew bold. She walked softly up the stairs while Marcus stayed in the sitting room, listening. As she reached the nursery door, she heard the steps clearly, as if someone was walking in the room. But when she pushed the door open, the room was silent and empty. The floorboards were warm under her feet. She knelt and pressed her ear to the wood. From below, she heard Marcus’s muffled voice, ‘Anything?’ She shook her head.

Then she noticed the toy, a small wooden horse with a broken leg, lying in the corner. It had not been there before. She picked it up, and it was cold, as if it had been left outside. She put it on the windowsill. The next morning, the horse was back in the corner. Elena asked Marcus if he had moved it, but he hadn’t. She threw it in the bin, but the following night, the footsteps were louder, and this time they stopped right outside the nursery door.

Elena began to research the history of the house. She discovered that the farmhouse had been built on the site of a former cottage that had burned down in the 1930s. A woman named Mary Harlow had lived there, a recluse who had been the midwife at the asylum. She had died in the fire. The asylum itself was known for its harsh conditions, and many patients had died in unmarked graves in the graveyard by the chapel. Elena wondered if the footsteps were a remnant of that past, but the steps were too heavy, too corporeal.

One night, Marcus was away on business. Elena lay in bed, listening to Isobel’s breathing. She heard the footsteps, but they were different. They were lighter, quicker, like a child running. She flew to the nursery and found Isobel standing in her cot, her eyes wide, her finger pointing at the wardrobe. The wardrobe door was ajar, and from it came a low hum. Elena slammed the door shut and grabbed Isobel, running downstairs. She didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next day, she found that the wooden horse was back, and beside it, a small doll made of cloth, the kind you might find in an old attic. She took them to the church ruins and buried them in the graveyard, saying a prayer. That night, the footsteps did not come. Elena and Marcus relaxed, thinking it was over. But a week later, they came back, and this time they were accompanied by a faint scratching sound, as if something was being dragged across the floorboards above.

Marcus decided to investigate thoroughly. He took up the floorboards in the nursery, looking for anything that might make noise. Underneath, they found a bundle of old newspapers, yellowed and damp, from the 1930s. They were opened to an article about Mary Harlow, the midwife, and how she had been accused of ‘practicing without a license.’ The article said she had been ‘troubled’ and had ‘kept a diary’ of her ‘unorthodox methods.’ Elena turned the page, and there was a photograph of Mary, a severe woman with hollow cheeks, and in the background of the photo, a child’s crib. The caption read: ‘Miss Harlow with her ‘assistant,’ a local girl who was found dead in the asylum’s basement.’

Elena felt a chill. She read on, the article describing how the girl had been neglected, left to die in the dark, and how Mary had been acquitted due to lack of evidence. Elena looked at the photo again, and she saw that the crib was in the exact same position as Isobel’s cot. She ran to the nursery and pulled back the carpet, revealing the floorboards. In the wood, she found faint marks, as if someone had scratched a tally over many years. The scratches were fresh.

She called Marcus, and they decided to board up the nursery and move Isobel into their own room. That night, as they huddled in their bed, they heard the footsteps again, but they were not in the nursery. They were outside their door, moving down the hallway. The door handle turned, slowly, but they had locked it. Then the footsteps retreated, and the house fell silent.

The next morning, Isobel was fine, but Elena found a small, hand-painted sign on the nursery door: ‘I am still here.’ She took the sign down, but she could not shake the feeling that the nursery was not theirs. They called a priest to bless the house, but he felt a darkness in the room, and he refused to enter without a guide.

They decided to sell the house, but the real estate agent could not find a buyer. Every couple who came to view the house would leave quickly, muttering about ‘feelings.’ One couple said that they saw a woman in a white nightgown standing at the nursery window, holding a baby. Elena and Marcus were desperate, but they could not afford to move without selling.

One night, Elena was alone, listening to the radio to drown out the silence. A song came on, an old folk song about a woman who lost her child to a fire. As she listened, she realized that the lyrics were the same as the hum she had heard from the wardrobe. She went to the nursery, opened the wardrobe, and there, in the back, was a small, hidden door. She pulled it open and found a crawl space, smelling of damp and decay. In the corner, there was a box, and inside was a diary.

She opened the diary by torchlight. It was Mary Harlow’s. She wrote about ‘the children’ she had ‘cared for’ at the asylum, and about a special child she had ‘kept’ in her cottage. She wrote about how the child had ‘died from fever’ and how she had buried her in the graveyard, but the child’s spirit had never left. She described how she would hear the child’s footsteps at night, and how she would speak to her. The final entry was dated the day of the fire: ‘I can’t bear it anymore. I will end this. I will join her.’

Elena realized that Mary had not died in the fire as a victim, but had set it herself, and that the child’s spirit had remained, not in the asylum, but in the cottage, and now in the house that stood in its place. The spirit was not malevolent, it was lost, looking for its mother. Elena felt a pang of pity. She returned the diary to the box and closed the hidden door.

That night, the footsteps were gentle, almost a lullaby. Elena sat in the nursery, on the floor, and spoke softly. ‘I know you’re here. I know you’re looking for someone. But she’s gone. You have to move on.’ There was a long silence. Then the window rattled, and the footsteps faded away, one last time.

They never heard the footsteps again. But Elena kept the diary, and sometimes, late at night, she would read it and listen for the ghost of a child, running down the hall. She never sold the house, and she never told anyone the full story. But on the anniversary of the fire, she would place a small bunch of wildflowers on the graveyard by the chapel, and she would whisper a name: ‘Mary.’