The Painted Floorboards

The house on Maple Street had a peculiar smell, like old wood and forgotten dust, but my family didn’t mind. We moved into the downstairs flat when I was three, and the upstairs belonged to an elderly woman we rarely saw. My room was at the end of a narrow hallway, and the floorboards were painted a deep, glossy red, as if someone had carefully lacquered them. I remember the morning my mother was trying to get my older brother, Daniel, ready for school. He was fifteen and grumbled about everything, but on this particular day, he was taking his time, fiddling with his hair in our shared mirror. I was sitting on the floor, playing with my wooden blocks, when Daniel finally left, slamming the door behind him. The sound was muffled, but then I heard a click—the lock. I crawled over and tried to push the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The handle was too high, and my small hands couldn’t turn it. I started to cry, a thin wail that echoed in the small room. I heard my mother’s footsteps on the stairs, but they seemed to stop halfway. Then I heard a whisper, not from my mother, but from the walls. It was a soft, dry rustle, like pages turning. I stopped crying and listened. The floor beneath me felt cold, and I noticed the red paint had a pattern—a dark spiral in the corner, almost invisible against the crimson. I touched it, and it felt sticky, not like dried paint. I pulled my hand back and saw a dark red smear on my fingers. The whisper grew louder, and I could make out words: ‘She’s here.’ I didn’t know who ‘she’ was, but the voice was old and angry. My mother finally reached the door and rattled the handle. She called my name, but I couldn’t answer. The room seemed to tilt, and the spiral began to pulse. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the door was unlocked, and my mother was kneeling beside me, her face pale. She asked if I was okay, but I couldn’t tell her what I had felt. She said the door had merely swollen shut, but I knew better. That evening, my mother found a key under my bed, tarnished and heavy. She threw it in the trash, but I kept it hidden in my pocket. I still have it, and sometimes, when I hold it, I hear the whisper again, telling me that she is waiting for me to return. The house on Maple Street was demolished years ago, but the floorboards, I heard, were saved and sold. I don’t know where they ended up, but I hope no child ever has to play on them again.