The Pull of the Loam

August 2, 2018

by Marianne

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (588 words)

"In 2011, I moved into a ground-floor flat in an old Victorian house that had been converted into apartments. The place had high ceilings and a damp smell that no amount of air freshener could mask. I was a freelance editor, working odd hours, and my sleep schedule was already erratic. But within a week, […]"

In 2011, I moved into a ground-floor flat in an old Victorian house that had been converted into apartments. The place had high ceilings and a damp smell that no amount of air freshener could mask. I was a freelance editor, working odd hours, and my sleep schedule was already erratic. But within a week, I started waking up feeling like I’d been run over by a train. My limbs were heavy, my head throbbed, and there was a taste of soil in my mouth.

It began as a pressure on my chest, a weight that pressed me into the mattress. The first time, I thought I was having a heart attack. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and my eyes felt glued shut. But it was the sound that terrified me most—a slow, wet squelching, like something being dragged through mud. It came from the corner of the room, near the old fireplace that had been blocked off. I tried to scream, but only a thin whistle escaped.

As the weeks went on, the episodes grew stronger. I would feel a pull, as if my very essence was being siphoned out of me. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion; it was a deep, existential drain, as if my memories and emotions were being scraped away. I started to forget things—appointments, names, even my own reflection sometimes looked unfamiliar.

It got worse when I became pregnant. The changes in my body seemed to make me more susceptible. One morning, after a particularly brutal night, I felt a surge of defiance. I forced my eyes open and saw a dark shape crouched in the corner, its form flickering like a heat haze. It had no face, but I felt its attention on me, and it was hungry. I managed to roll off the bed and stagger toward the door, but an invisible force slammed me back against the wall, knocking the breath out of me.

Somehow, I made it into the hallway. The lights flickered, and the air grew cold. I could hear the squelching again, closer now. I stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping to reach the back door, but the hallway stretched impossibly long. At the end, I saw a gaping hole in the floor, filled with thick, black mud that churned and bubbled. A hand made of that same mud reached out, fingers beckoning.

I turned to run, but the floor gave way beneath me. I fell into the pit, and the mud closed over my head. I was drowning in it, and it was pulling me down, into the earth, into the foundations of the house. I could feel the weight of centuries above me, and I knew that I was being claimed.

And then I woke up. I was in my bed, soaked in sweat, my heart pounding. The baby kicked, a sharp reminder of life. But I knew it wasn’t over. The next night, I took a flashlight and examined the corner of the bedroom. The floorboards were jagged and broken, and I could see dark soil underneath. I knelt and brushed it aside, revealing a small, polished bone.

I moved out the next week. But even now, in my new apartment, I feel the pull at night. It’s in the smell of the garden after rain, in the way the earth shifts when I walk. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I feel that hand reaching for me, and I know that it found me once, and it will find me again.

Related Horror Movies to Watch

The Head

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Alone with You

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Tales of the Inexplicable

2021

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