The Salt Under the Floorboards

I never thought I’d be the one writing to a forum full of strangers, but after three weeks of this, I’m desperate. My name is Jake, and I’m fourteen. My family has lived in the same old farmhouse on the edge of a dying town for as long as I can remember. Nothing weird ever happened here until my grandfather, Amos, passed away four weeks ago. He died in his sleep, peaceful, and we had him cremated like he wanted. He was my favorite person, always sneaking me extra dessert and telling stories about the old days. Losing him hit me hard.

A week after the funeral, I started noticing things. At first, it was small: the smell of his pipe tobacco in the hallway, even though he hadn’t smoked in years. Then the creaks at night, footsteps pacing in the attic above my room, though no one goes up there. My parents thought it was just grief playing tricks on my mind. But then the sounds got more insistent—scratching inside the walls, like something crawling. And the whispers. I couldn’t make out the words, but they seemed to come from behind the wainscoting, always at night.

I tried to ignore it, but it only got worse. One morning, I found the kitchen cabinets thrown open, dishes shattered on the floor. My mother blamed it on a stray cat that might have gotten in, but the windows were closed. Another night, I woke up to find a circle of salt drawn on my bedroom floor, and my grandfather’s watch placed in the middle. It was the watch he always wore, which we had buried with him. I know because I saw it placed in the casket before the cremation. How did it end up here? My hands shook as I threw it in the trash, but the next day it was on my pillow again.

I started to feel watched, always. The air grew heavy, and I’d get this sensation of dread, like something was about to claw its way out from behind the walls. My dog, a golden retriever named Max, refused to come into my room, whining at the door. My parents dismissed it as teenage imagination, but they were also finding it hard to sleep lately.

Then, last week, I found the source of the scratching. In the basement, behind an old crate, there was a section of the wall that had been patched with mismatched wood. The patch wasn’t there before; I know this house every inch. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pried the boards off. Behind them, there was a gap in the foundation leading to a crawlspace, and inside that gap, I found a small wooden box. It was covered in dust and spiderwebs, but the wood was carved with strange symbols. I opened it.

Inside was a photograph of my grandfather as a young man, standing next to a man I didn’t recognize, both holding shovels, in front of a field. There was also a journal, its pages yellowed, and a small cloth pouch filled with what smelled like dried herbs and salt. The journal was my grandfather’s handwriting, but it was decades old. It spoke of a ‘visitor’ that had been in the house when he was a child. He described how his own grandfather had made a deal to ensure a good harvest—a deal that involved keeping something in the foundation, a ‘guardian’ that fed on the lives of the household. He wrote that the guardian had to be fed every fifty years, and that he, Amos, was to be sacrificed to renew the pact. He had tried to break it but couldn’t, and he left the box as a warning.

I didn’t want to believe it, but the photo, the symbols, the pouch—it all clicked. My grandfather’s death wasn’t natural. He was the offering. And now, the guardian, whatever it is, is hungry again. It’s been trying to get out, to find its next meal. And I think it’s got its eye on me.

Last night, I woke up to find a dark figure standing at the foot of my bed. It was tall and thin, with long arms that seemed to drag on the floor. Its face was featureless, just a void. I couldn’t scream. I just lay there, frozen. It tilted its head, as if examining me, and then it whispered one word: ‘More.’ The voice was like dry leaves rustling, and it came from all around the room. When I blinked, it was gone, but there was a foul smell of rot that lingered.

I know now that I can’t fight this alone. My parents wouldn’t believe me. Who would? I need to find a way to stop it, or it will take me. But I’ve gotten one clue: in the journal, my grandfather had written something about the floorboards in the hallway—about how they were soaked in salt and iron to keep the guardian at bay. Maybe that’s why it only prowls at night, and why it hasn’t grabbed me already. But the salt is old, waning. I have to renew it. I’m going to try to pry up the floorboards tonight and packing fresh salt underneath. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to have to burn the house down. I’m too scared to do it, but I might have no choice.

If anyone reads this and has any idea what to do, please help me. I’m scared I’ll be next. The watch is ticking, and I have very little time.